Decisions
by dans tous nos reves
Summary: Begins a little over five years after the Nevada takeover when Eric embarks on a quest to find Sookie. T for early chapters, but may be M in later chapters. Slightly AU. Spoilers for all eight books, and selected themes and elements of Book 9
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: **Disclaimer**: I do not own the Sookie Stackhouse/Southern Vampire Mysteries. I just like playing in Ms. Harris's backyard. Hopefully she doesn't mind!

Eric groaned as he stretched his long legs and leaned back in the comfortable black leather chair that had once belonged to him. He breathed in the smell of the club, heavy with the scent of horny, drunk, and desperate fangbangers, and frightened yet excited tourists. It was like coming home. He hadn't realized how much he missed this tiny corner of the world—_his_ tiny corner of the world. He had forgotten how special this place was, or at least, how special it was to him.

He knew that Fangtasia could burn to the ground tomorrow, leaving nothing more than a pile of ashes and memories; only he would miss it for any extended period of time, or in any meaningful way. Only he had really benefited from its operation. Oh, certainly others had benefitted from it financially, but only he had truly benefitted from it. Were it not for this bar, this visually unimpressive and somewhat cliché human-vampire meat-market, he never would have met her.

He smiled a bit when he thought of her. He did not allow himself to think of her often, and it was only within the last year that he could think of her without breaking something, or someone. Tonight was a different sort of a night, though. He would allow himself to embrace the memories; the memories of her and the memories of his life before the Nevada takeover.

Still, even though tonight was a night to revel in the past, he would allow himself no more than five minutes alone in his former office. Any longer than that and he would risk running into Pam. He loved his Child, but he had no desire to speak with her on this night, of all nights. She would remember what this night meant to him, and would purposefully try to talk about other things. The conversation would be forced, and it would remind him of all he had lost, of all he had given up.

Eric could feel the blackness sliding into his thoughts. The fault lay with him, really. It was his fault for thinking of her _that_ way: The painful way, as if she were something he had held in the palm of his hand that he had let slip away. It was his fault that he was unable to rid himself of the memories of her silken hair under his fingers, or her smooth soft skin caressing his. It was his fault that he viewed her like some treasure lost at sea on a sunken ship.

He sighed. He was supposed to focus on the happiness of it all. He was supposed to revel in the fact that he had come within a fingertip's reach of having a soul mate, someone who belonged to him and him alone. It was amazing to him that after one thousand years on this Earth, the one time he finds actual love, it comes in the form of a stubborn and fragile human woman. He could not believe this was the one package that could entice and elude him like a mirage in an otherwise barren desert.

He nearly laughed out loud at his piteous pining. And he an indomitable Viking warrior.

As if his mind knew it needed a distraction—to think about anything other than Sookie Stackhouse—it forced his eyes to wander; looking around the familiar room a little more closely. It had not changed at all. He wondered if it really was Clancy, rather than his child, running the show now. He was certain that Pam would have changed many things in his absence; she considered his tastes bawdy and unrefined. He considered hers dull and pedestrian.

Another five minutes of silence passed while Eric looked back on the last five years of his life. If he thought about them in the context of his whole, long life, then they were not unlike the rest. They were filled with varying amounts of interest and intrigue, profit and losses, vampire politics and survival maneuvering. Each day was as the last and also the next. No, there was nothing unusual about the last five years when viewed in the context of his whole life.

It was when he viewed them in the context of the last _decade_ of his life that these recent five years seemed out of place. So many things had happened in his world, and the vampire world in general, in the last decade that all of the other years seemed dull and monotonous in comparison. The commonality shared by the monotonous years . . . decades . . . centuries . . . was that they all were years void of her presence.

For a moment he was awash with memories of those few days they spent together. He could recall with intimate detail every curve of her body, mole on her skin, and strand of her hair. In his mind he pictured the way her mouth would fall open as he drove her to ecstasy, and the way she fought to keep her eyes focused as he instructed her to look at him. He remembered with perfect clarity her warmth and silky wetness the first time he'd thrust into her. It was an act he'd completed many times, and with many women, but being inside of her was special. It was exhilarating and excruciating, comforting yet terrifying. It was unlike anything he had experienced in this excessively long life.

He was so lost in his memories of his time with her that he didn't hear Pam's footsteps, or catch her scent until too late. "Master," her voice held a hint of surprise.

"Pam," Eric replied as he rose to greet his beloved child.

He had not seen her in some months, and she was cautious in her approach. She walked toward him, stopping just short of hugging him. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and then nodded in greeting. "How have thing been in my absence?"

"Oh, much the same, of course," she gestured toward the mounds of papers accumulating on the corner of the desk. "I'm leaving all of the truly mundane tasks to Clancy. He seems to rather enjoy them."

He chuckled in response. The conversation was headed exactly where he'd anticipated . . . into avoidance. He would time his exit so that he could leave within the next five minutes, and appear to have a reason for doing so. He opened his mouth to explain to Pam that he had important business to attend, but she beat him to it:

"So, this is the day, is it not?" She was staring purposefully at the pile on the desk, avoiding any direct eye contact. He knew she did not care to see any of the emotions she expected to appear there. "Should we go to the cemetery to pay our respects and keep up appearances?"

It was an odd question, one that he had not anticipated. He took a moment to answer. "I think that would not be a bad idea." He surprised both Pam and himself. Her head whipped up, and she looked him in the eyes. Her expression was questioning and uncertain; it was as if she refused to believe he'd consented . . . or she thought he had totally lost his mind.

He laughed. It was his real laugh, his roaring laugh that Sookie had loved so much. He placed his hand on his child's shoulders. "It is fine, Child. I am perfectly willing and able to go and . . . pay my respects, as you so eloquently put it."

"Do we need to . . . ?"

"No," he replied. "I've already taken care of the arrangements. The bouquet should have been placed on her plot around four hours ago."

Pam's eyebrows arched in response.

"Pam, do you honestly think that you are the only one who thinks of these things?" He chuckled again as he took her by the elbow and led her through the office door. He had been wrong about seeing Pam. It had improved his mood considerably, and he was actually looking forward to, rather than dreading, the task of visiting his former lover's grave. It was doubtful that he even could have gone without Pam by his side.

. . . .

Less than an hour later, Eric and Pam were standing in silent watch over the simple and elegant headstone that was adorned with five or six different bouquets of flowers. He caught the scent of human, shifter, Were, fae, and vampire. He noticed the lone long-stemmed rose and wanted to rip it right off the grave, shred it into a thousand tiny pieces, and then shove the pieces down Compton's throat.

He couldn't believe the audacity of the man; placing a solitary red rose by the grave of his former lover. _His_ former lover, no less; the lover whom Compton had betrayed, been unfaithful to, and dishonest with. He imagined shoving his petal-filled fist all the way down Compton's throat until it reached the bowels of his non-functioning stomach. That would teach him to lay flowers on the grave of his bonded and former lover.

"Master," a voice of reason parted his dark clouds of rage, "it is important that we all keep up appearances. It is the only way that she will remain safe."

Eric let out a long breath. He did not require air to breathe, but the action of breathing out in one long breath felt therapeutic. He released all of his tension and rage into the ether. She was right, of course. He must allow Compton to continue his ruse of mourning, just as they continued theirs.

Finally, after a moment of reflection, he kneeled to the ground and wept. His tears were silent, but free-flowing and genuine. It did not matter to him that she was not really deceased, or that she was happily living out her mortal life somewhere. No, the fact that she still existed was of little to no comfort to him, when all he wanted was for her to be by his side.

It had been five years since they'd helped her to deceive their own King, his minions, and myriad other supernatural creatures. It had taken much work and planning. It had taken even more patience and bravery on Sookie's part. He had since spent much of his time traveling between Louisiana and Nevada. In the intervening years, regardless of the seriousness of his tasks, no more than five minutes at a time would pass without a thought of her.

He rose to face his Child, who he could see also silently (and genuinely) wept. He thought she might miss Sookie more than she let on. He placed his head on Pam's shoulder—yet another ruse—and whispered into her ear. He was so close to her, and his voice was so soft that he doubted even a vampire with very advanced hearing would decipher it. "I need to find her Pam."

_TBC . . . _

A/N: Okay, this was partially an experiment in Eric POV. I love Eric but he doesn't "speak" to me as freely as Pam and Sookie. So, it may take some adjusting in later chapters to make it more "Eric."

Anyhow, it also was partially a nod to all of my fellow Eric lovers. I thought that my collection of stories wouldn't be complete without at least one other E/S story. Hopefully you all are able to enjoy this despite the lack of "the talk," and some of the other more spiritual/blood bond based aspects of the E/S pairing as that's not really the focus here.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Pam leaned back from Eric's grasp. She allowed her wariness to pass over her face in a fleeting expression before returning to its typical impassivity. Her eyes bored directly into his as she rested her hand on his shoulder. "You're distraught. I don't know whether by 'finding' her you mean harm to yourself or not, but whatever the case you need to snap out of this. It's unbecoming of a vampire of your status."

Her words were slow and deliberate. He loved that she was such a phony. He had taught her well. She was a master of the art of deception and trickery, and for that he was proud. Still, he knew what meaning lay behind her words, and her insubordination made his blood boil.

They moved swiftly and silently to his new car. He had wanted a newer model of the Corvette, but it reminded him too much of her. Every old American muscle car he test drove smelled like her, evoked painful images of her. Instead, he'd bought a black Maserati GranTurismo. It was ostentatious—even for his tastes—but it drove better than any of the other sports cars he'd sampled. It would have to do. It suited his position in the new hierarchy. Pam eyed it with amusement, as usual, but slid gracefully down into the red leather seats.

There was no question that they were headed to his house to finish this discussion without the concern of unfriendly spying ears. He raced home with a fury, anxious to have it out with her. What his Child did not realize was that he'd already set his mind to finding Sookie. She had no further say in the matter.

In his mind, Pam's choices consisted of helping him, or incurring his wrath. He was certain she would choose the former, but then Pam could be devious and willful. She might just choose the wrath for entertainment. He would ensure that whatever punishment he chose was anything but entertaining.

One thing he did worry about was Bill. He would need Bill's assistance. Bill would resist. Eric knew the sentimental vampire was still desperately in love with Sookie. He would be angered by Eric's plans, and would not want to help. He'd wonder if he should formulate his own plan to find her for himself. Yes, Bill would need special handling if he wanted to avoid killing him before he could procure his computer skills.

When they arrived at his secured home, he and his Child moved wordlessly into his kitchen. He popped two TrueBloods into the microwave and handed one to her. She accepted it without words, and stood facing the window. Her back was to him. He could see that she was upset with him, and that convincing her to assist willingly would be quite difficult.

Still, he needed to know the source of her defiance before he could rip it out of her by the root. He allowed her to speak first. When she did, her voice was little more than a whisper. "You would undo everything we have done for her." She paused to allow her message to sink in. "You would take apart the months of work, planning, and piecing together for your own selfish ends?"

He remained silent, unsure whether or not she was finished with her little declaration. She shook her head, "_N_o, it is more than that. You would _endanger_ her, the one you hold in such high regard, because you cannot find the strength in yourself to move on."

He noticed an edge to her otherwise careful voice. He was surprised at the tactic she'd taken. She'd struck a blow at his most sensitive spot. There was none of her usual playful mocking, or jabs at his power and pride.

"I think I can manage this without putting her into further danger, Pam." His voice showed only a touch of sarcasm. He would not allow her to know that her words had impaled him like a sword. How dare his own minion doubt _his_ ability to keep his Sookie, _his bonded_, safe, or to be adept at covering his own tracks?

"Are you so certain?"

Her words hung in the air between them. He controlled his temper, attempting to see where she was coming from. Like him, Pam cared about Sookie, but in a different way. Like him, she did not want any harm to come to Sookie. He understood why she was asking these obvious questions, but her insubordination was growing tiresome. He smirked, "Are you saying you doubt my ability to protect Sookie?" He gave the words a playful lilt, but just below this was a direct challenge.

She briefly met his gaze and then fixed it to an invisible marker on the floor. "No." Though it was only one word, he could sense her irritation. He knew her well enough to know she also was checking back her temper. He would push her further.

"Then are you saying you refuse to help me find her?"

"No." He observed a slight flick of her eyes in his direction before they found the floor. A small twitch of her right index finger, yes, she was livid now. Well, so was he.

"Then what are you getting at Pam? My patience is wearing thin. I'd like to make some provisions before your presence is required at Fangtasia." He relaxed backward in his uncomfortable wooden kitchen chair, the wood protesting a little under his weight.

"What I am getting at, _Master_," her eyes now focused slightly to the left of his—no direct contact, but the challenge was there—"is that while I think you can protect her from enemies . . . I wonder whether you can protect her from yourself?"

He scoffed. "What does that even mean Pam? 'Protect her from myself?' She is _my _bonded, and she should be _mine_. She has no reason to fear me." She rolled her eyes at him, and his temper flared. "Go, track down Claudine or her useless brother Claude and see what they can dig up for me. Do not come back until you have information I can use."

She bowed and then walked toward the door, still shaking her head. As she reached for the handle, she glanced back over her shoulder and met his eyes for one last time. "Just remember, Eric, five years have passed since you last saw, touched, or spoke with her. This is the blink of an eye for a vampire like you or me. For a human, this is next to eternity." She paused as if to open her mouth to say more and then thought better of it. He gestured for her to continue. To him, this was the first sensible point she'd made since they began this discussion.

"What will you do when you find her? What do you expect to happen? Do you think she will just rush back into your arms? Did she ever rush into your arms, Eric?" And then she was gone. He was glad to have a moment alone with his thoughts.

Once he was certain she was gone, he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. _Can you protect her from yourself?_ _What does that mean? What does she mean?_ The rest of her message he understood, but this made little sense to him.

He thought about Pam's words in numerous contexts . . . . Of course, the woman was maddening. He knew that. Whenever he had been in Sookie's presence, she had always made him want to strangle her. Or fuck her. And then perhaps strangle her. She was headstrong, naïve, impatient, and a whole lot of other things. This he knew. But these were also the very things that attracted him to her, well, besides her beauty and unintended sexual prowess.

He felt that he was certainly missing something in Pam's message. Maybe this was a female thing? Having dealt with females for over one thousand years, he considered himself somewhat of an expert in those matters, but every now and then he could be surprised.

He sat for a few moments, and then decided he was wasting valuable time. Self-doubt was a pointless and dangerous emotion. He had made his decision. He would seek out his bonded . . . his _love_?

Now, to deal with the next difficult task: Bill.

_TBC . . . ._

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A/N: Sorry this has taken so long to update. I'm at the building blocks stage of the story, where I'm trying to piece everything together to make sure it works. I know what the purpose of my story is, but I want to make sure that it slowly comes across to anyone who reads it as well. I already know the ending, so I'm sort of working backwards, which is taking a little more work than I had planned. (Plus, I'm really busy.)

And, as always, sole copyright belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm just having some fun with her fascinating characters!

Thanks for reading and feel free to leave feedback. And a great big "Thank You" to Hopestreet for being my second pair of eyes on this one.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Eric stretches his arms, reaching straight into the air, and then slowly in large circles in front of and behind him. He rotates his head from side to side, and then reaches down to the floor in order to stretch his hamstrings. He could feel the slow and deliberate movements push the blood through his veins, massaging the magic held in the sinew of his muscles. He inhales to feel his lungs stretch to capacity and then slowly retreat back to their normal size.

Vampires have no anatomical need to stretch, but like many routines from their human existence, stretching is a residual comfort. To him, stretching is like sex and feeding; it relaxes the body and soul, and opens the mind, allowing it to focus.

Many of the poses he enters, he has been using since the warrior days of his youth. When he finishes stretching, he progresses into calisthenics. His muscles ripple and flex, expand and contract. He feels more alive than ever as he moves into his daily martial arts routine. He has learned myriad styles of martial arts in his long existence. He prefers martial arts that engage the entire body; requiring all appendages to function in harmony with each other and the mind. To him, this gives him an advantage over others of his kind who have learned to depend solely on their own inherent strength and ability. It makes them lazy, and laziness can be exploited.

Today he will practice the Shaolin Kung Fu style. The open palm, aggressive, and linear movements of Xingyiquan channel his power, and direct his focus. He will need this power and focus for the quest he has ahead of him. Though the feat of finding a human being typically would be a simple one—no match for his ancient vampire prowess—his ultimate goal is not merely to find his love, but to claim her heart and mind. Even after these years of separation, he still longs to make her his. He knows this will not be easy, and Pam's words run through his mind as he exercises.

What will he do when he finds his bonded? In his desperate need to find her, he has not given this much thought. He supposes that what he does will depend on what course her life has taken. His Child is correct that five years is to a human, what a century is to him. There is no telling what her life will be like when he finds her. He can only take the first step of locating her, and reassessing his situation when the time comes. He allows his mind to clear of all thoughts of Sookie Stackhouse, if only for a short period of time. This time is his, and he will use it to reinvigorate himself.

He feels relaxed and limber after his exercise, and long warm shower. He closes his eyes out of habit, and waits for sunset to arrive. He is ancient, and able to wake from his day death an hour or so before sunset, but he knows that Bill is too young for this. It is a testament to his patience that he has not left for Bill's house while the sun is still in the air. He is anxious to begin his quest, eager to prove himself, and above all, eager to reunite with his bonded.

. . . .

Eric parked his sleek black car on the side road abutting Bill's lawn. He will not drive his car across the land and risk getting it stuck . . . or filthy. He would not be seen driving around in an unwashed, unkempt vehicle. He has seen many doing this, and it irritates him how little pride humans (and some vampires) take in their appearance. It astounds him that so few people (and vampires) realize the power of appearance, but then, he has lived long and has been exposed to many different forms of stupidity.

Bill has heard Eric's car pull into the vicinity, and is waiting for him at the door. Eric could see Bill trying to maintain his poker face, but the surprise at this unexpected visit was visible anyhow. He inclined his head in Bill's direction as he drifted up the porch steps, and offered his typical greeting. "Compton."

He noted that Bill was dressed in his usual khakis and collared shirt. This had become something of a uniform for Bill, as had fitted dark wash jeans and dark tee shirts for Eric (which, incidentally, he was wearing that night). _Some things never change_, he observed to himself with an amused internal chuckle. "What can I do for you tonight, Eric?" Bill's tone made it very clear that he was not happy to be playing host to the old vampire and that he would just as soon hear Eric's request and have him on his way.

"It's nice to see you again, too, Bill." Unlike Bill, Eric was able to keep his emotions well hidden beneath his relaxed façade. He kept his tone light and friendly, though he knew Bill could read between the lines.

"Well, you haven't called on me since you took over as the Louisiana Liaison, so I can only assume that you're here on business." Bill's tone was back under control as he restored his friendly façade and threw a TrueBlood in the microwave for Eric. _Always the hospitable Southern Gentleman_, Eric jibed to himself to suppress the wave of irritation that washed over him at Bill's penchant for stating the obvious.

"Perhaps, but it would be more accurate to call it _personal_ business. So, I am asking you as a favor, rather than an order." It chafed at him to put it in such a way, but he knew he would owe a very large favor to Bill regardless of the terms he used. He thought it better to approach the situation by appeasing the young vampire's pride and vanity, and perhaps his need.

Eric has always known that obtaining assistance for an undesirable task is best achieved through persuasiveness and the exploitation of the other party's needs. He thought the modern term that humans used to describe this concept was "compromise." To Eric it is obvious—common sense—and does not need its own term or explanation.

Bill's eyebrows quirked upward at this phrasing and he motioned his hand toward an antique styled loveseat. Eric was pleased that Bill had apparently learned and adapted to his place in the hierarchy. He could have easily demanded Bill's reluctant assistance, but Bill was a better worker when he was not under pressure—in much the same way his bonded had been.

The loveseat lurched and groaned under the tall vampire's weight. He shifted slightly in the uncomfortable seat and gave it a closer look. It was a red and gold acanthus pattern with carved cherry wood armrests and legs. It looked like something a museum curator might have picked out when restoring an historic home. Eric wondered if that was exactly the case here. "Have you been redecorating, Bill?" The older furniture had not been this ornate.

"I'm surprised you'd notice, but yes, yes I have." A hint of pride ran through Bill's words. Despite the vampire's initial reluctance to return to his family homestead, it had become a place of solace and comfort. Eric is pleased that he has surprised Bill yet again with his questions about decorating. He does not care one way or the other, but it is better to have Bill off-balance and guessing. Still, he senses his presence is unwelcome, and knows he must move straight into his request. He has already rehearsed his introduction, so this is not a problem.

"Well, Bill, I won't waste any more of your time with idle chit chat. I understand you have become quite adept at infiltrating databases and other secured computer information."

Bill gave a quick nod, and let Eric continue.

"Good. You see, I'll need you to obtain some information for me. Of course this information will not be readily ascertainable, and it will require your expertise to find it."

"What sort of information?" Bill asked. His tone was cautiously neutral, but his eyes betrayed hints of suspicion, distrust, and concern. Eric was impressed. Bill was more perceptive than he had given him credit for. Ordinarily, such a task would be routine were it related to "business," and would be unlikely to arouse Bill's suspicions. He sensed that Bill was forming his own conclusions about what type of difficult-to-obtain information Eric would require for "personal" reasons. It appeared to him that the younger vampire was unhappy with whatever scenarios he had devised.

Eric's regard for Bill's intelligence ended as quickly as it began. The distrust in Bill's expression served as yet another reminder to Eric of the vampire's continued insubordination. Eric suppressed the urge to grab Bill by the throat and throw him into the wall as a demonstration of his superiority. Anger coursed through his veins, and he kept his mouth closed so that Bill would not see his fangs extend. It would be within his right to punish the insolent vampire, as he was still Eric's underling, but he knew it would not help his cause. Eric reminded himself that he must continue to treat this appeal to Bill's expertise as a favor rather than an order. Still, he would not be undermined by Bill's lack of self-control.

"Does that matter?" He used the same methodology as he had with Pam earlier. He kept his voice light and relaxed, with a thinly veiled challenge underneath the surface currents. Unlike his Child, he expected Bill to challenge. He was certain the vampire was already suspicious about the purpose of this task. He would not bend so easily.

Bill shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and hesitated. He looked past Eric's shoulder, and attempted to shield from Eric's view the pained expression on his face. This attempt did not go unnoticed by Eric who could read the conflicting emotions just below the surface of Bill's hesitation. "Under other circumstances . . . no."

"And this is an exception?" He flashed Bill a fangy smile. It had been a long time since anyone had truly stood their ground with him. Even Pam had been relatively obedient. He was spoiling for a good session of hand-to-hand vampire combat. He would have considered such a challenge fun, were it not a waste of his precious time.

A low growl emitted from Bill's chest in response to the challenge. "No, Eric, but why do I have the feeling it is something I'm going to regret agreeing to?"

"So, it is settled then?"

"Yes," Bill hissed in reluctant acquiescence to his role in the vampire hierarchy. Personal favor or not, Bill could not refuse a vampire of Eric's rank without facing some form of retribution.

"Good. I have to find Sookie." Eric paused to let his words have their intended effect. The suspicion and distrust that had occupied Bill's face was replaced with cold fury. When Bill made no attempt to speak, Eric continued. "I need you to . . . what is the word . . . _hack?_ . . . certain private and government databases to ascertain her present whereabouts."

The silence that followed Eric's behest filled the room. Had the two vampires required air to breathe, they would have suffocated in the intensity of the silence. It was thick with unspoken emotion. Eric regarded Bill warily. He noticed Bill's color had paled, his had eyes darkened, and his fangs had extended to their full length. Most notably, Eric observed, was that the vampire was so motionless he could have been mistaken for a still life.

The air around Bill's nonmotile form hummed and buzzed with energy. It moved fluidly and rapidly compared with Bill's suspended stasis. It was the most dangerous he had ever seen Bill look. But Bill had already agreed, and Eric had anticipated this reaction because he knew Bill still harbored strong feelings for his bonded. "_Bill_." Eric commanded in his tone of authority.

The sound of his name snapped Bill out of his mental turmoil, and into action. He was on top of Eric at vampire speed, but Eric was ready for the attack. He grabbed Bill by the throat, and with a quick movement of his arm, tossed him against the far wall. The old wall shuddered and groaned, plaster dust floated in the air, threatening to give under the force of the blow.

Both vampires' fangs were extended, and their eyes black with fury. Bill rose from the floor, and Eric stood in a defensive position in the center of the room, waiting for the next attack. This was by far the most fun he'd had in while. His eyes beckoned Bill forward.

"I'll kill you before I help you find Sookie. If anyone deserves to find her it is me, and you know this." Bill's voice was ice water over steel. Eric knew this voice. He knew Bill was on the edge of giving into his bloodlust. This was the angriest and most dangerous he'd ever seen the vampire. It only excited Eric further.

"You will try. You will fail. And yet I will still find her whether you're around to help me or not. So really, either get on with dying, or get on with helping. Just stop wasting my damn time, Compton." Eric matched his signature leer to the mocking tone in his voice. It had the desired effect.

Bill lost all control. In blur of movement, he lifted a large, rectangular cherry table from the corner and slammed it against the wall. The wood shattered and splintered, sending shards flying in all directions. Eric smiled when Bill turned to face him holding a jagged piece of wood in his arms and spun it like a sword in a counter-clockwise circle at his side.

"You're going to stake me, Bill?" He asked with amusement in his voice. "You think that after more than one thousand years of surviving attacks—some discreet and some overt—that you will be the one to do me in?" He allowed his head to roll back as he roared with laughter while he mentally prepared for Bill's impending attack.

Eric knew the younger vampire could not resist this opportunity. He could sense that in Bill's mind, his adversary had let his guard down. He knew Bill believed that he had given in to his own vanity and arrogance in order to mock him. This was Bill's best, and perhaps only, opportunity to take down the famed Viking warrior. Bill leapt over the loveseat, retracted the arm holding the stake as if he was readying a spear, and then flung his arm out, attempting to strike.

_Whoosh. _Anticipating the attack, Eric pivoted, and ducked underneath Bill's extended arm. He grabbed the younger vampire's wrist with one powerful arm, and removed the stake with the other. In the same fluid movement, he applied pressure to Bill's wrist, twisted, and flung Bill to the floor. He pressed his cool, bare, iron foot against the fold of Bill's jaw.

Bill's face took on a puzzled look when he noticed Eric's bare feet. Eric responded by smiling at the confused vampire, but did not explain to Bill that he prefers fighting with bare feet. He would not tell Bill that as his feet no longer require the protection of shoes, he prefers to set them free; he feels more primal and raw when he fights this way. No, he does not tell Bill this because he does not want Bill to know he anticipated, and even provoked, this battle.

"Are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?" He ground his foot further into Bill's jaw, causing the vampire to stifle a moan of pain as his muscles and spine bent in impossible ways.

"I can only guess, Eric." Bill croaked. It impressed Eric that even through crumpled air tubes and vocal chords, Bill could manage to make his icy voice sound sarcastic and bitter.

"Even after all these years, you have no better understanding of me now than on the first day we met." He shook his head, but released Bill's throat from under his foot. The younger vampire sat up slowly, rubbing his throat and leaning his back up against the loveseat.

"As much as I love the thrill of a good fight, I value expediency. In this situation, time is against me, and I _require _expediency." Eric explained.

Another silence settled over the two vampires. Bill stared at a wall that was clearly in the direction of Sookie's old house. "Why are you doing this?" His voice was barely a whisper when it broke the silence.

"You should know the answer to that better than anyone, Compton."

_TBC . . ._

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A/N: Just another really, really big thanks to Hopestreet. This chapter was a hot mess when I sent it to her for grammar and feedback!! I'll still claim responsibility for any errors because I rewrote a lot of it. (So, blame me . . . not her!)

Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

Before Sookie came into his life, Eric would have told anyone who'd been foolish enough to ask that extended periods of close collaboration with the vampire Bill Compton was an unlikely scenario. It would have seemed even less likely to him that they would be working together for the purpose of finding a mortal woman—and _his_ bonded, no less. The irony of that thought and his present situation brought a sardonic smile to his face.

"No hits for Augustus Mason," came Bill's monotone voice. His fingers were moving over the keyboard with vampire speed and accuracy. His eyes left the computer monitor only long enough to record potentially useful information.

Eric still was unsure of whether coming to Bill was the best decision he had made. To him, the idea of the two vampires, as different as the moon and the sun, working together for a protracted period of time was absurd. It was one thing for the two of them to have worked in concert to protect the Louisiana vampires and Sookie during the Nevada takeover and its aftermath. Those situations involved battles, life-or-death scenarios, and the intervention of third parties. It was an entirely different thing for the two of them to work as a team for an extended period of time and to the exclusion of outside help.

Still, Sookie had, as with so many other aspects of his vampire existence, turned that notion on its head. It demeaned him to resort to Bill for assistance tracking his bonded, and yet, it was the best option he had at present. Being dependent upon Bill's skill and honesty was maddening to the ancient vampire. Yet, here he was, alone night after night with his rival, and somehow they both were still alive, and still collaborating.

"Next is Benjamin Mason," Eric read to Bill as he crossed the name Augustus Mason off his list.

Bill resumed his swift, accurate typing. Eric watched as web pages and screens closed as quickly as they opened. Bill might have objected to the reason driving Eric's need for his assistance, but he appeared to relish the actual tasks he was assigned.

Two weeks had passed since Eric had first propositioned Bill for assistance. Pam had returned from her search for Claudine with little helpful information. The faeries had retreated into the depths of their own realms, taking refuge in the protection and comfort of magic.

Eric could not blame them for this retreat, even if it would further complicate his search for his bonded. The integrated supernatural world had grown increasingly dark and dangerous; eclipsing the danger that had marked the undignified years of hiding that preceded the great reveal. Fairies, whose numbers had already diminished, were unwilling to risk exposure in such precarious times. They feared their race would not survive.

Pam was not able to track either Claude or Claudine into the fairy realm, and Niall had cut off all contact with the human realm. Two days after Pam learned of the fairies' whereabouts and reported back to Eric, he had begun to give up on the idea of getting information through them. Pam was to depart in search of Sookie's former boss, the shifter, when Claudine popped into the kitchen of Pam's house. Her timing was fortuitous, as Eric happened to be present at the time.

"I hear you're looking for me." Claudine's voice was as radiant and intoxicating as her smell. It had been four years since either he or Pam had been exposed to the overwhelming scent. The scent, sound, and sight of the fairy washed over the two vampires, and the tone of the room changed from one of surprise to one of exhilaration.

"Hey!" Claudine yelled, snapping her fingers. "HEY!!!" She yelled again. "Vampires, pull yourselves together!"

Eric blinked, and attempted to exert some level of control over his senses and his . . . libido. "Pam," He commanded in his voice of authority. She flicked a quick glance in his direction, but her eyes were glassy, and she had taken a step in Claudine's direction. "Pam!" he roared. Pam cowered backward a step, but never took her eyes off the fairy. "Leave the room please, Pam." It was hard enough for him to maintain control over himself. He had no desire to restrain another wild vampire. The energy exertion would probably remove what little self-control he had left.

Pam stalked backwards out of the room with a wistful expression on her face. He turned his attention back to the buoyant fairy who was clearly enjoying every second of the potentially fatal situation. "I need information on Sookie's whereabouts."

Claudine scoffed. "You know I do not have that information, and that even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you."

They had stared each other down, the vampire and the fairy. Both of them knew that he could rip her to shreds, but both of them knew that he would not dare. If there was ever a way to alienate Sookie, it was to harm those she loved.

He'd tried in various ways to coax some useful information out of Claudine. He inquired about Niall, and about the last time any of them had seen Sookie. She was reluctant, of course, especially because it was Eric. After a few minutes of back and forth questions, accusations, and rationalizations, Claudine admitted that Niall had employed some sort of magic to keep Sookie off the fairy radar.

She admitted that even Niall was not certain whether his magic could protect Sookie from non-fairy supes who sought her, but thus far, neither Claudine nor Claude had been able to locate her. Apparently they had conducted a thorough search. Eric doubted that he shared the same definition of "thorough" as the fairy twins. He asked her if she was cut off from sensing whether or not Sookie was in an emergency. She replied that she was, and that she could no longer sense her at all. For some reason this did not worry Eric. He felt that she was somewhere out there, safe and sound, and that if anything had happened to her, they'd all sense it.

He thanked Claudine for her information, and agreed to pass any information he managed to acquire along to her. He inquired if Niall was available for consultation. He was not. _Of course not_, he thought bitterly. That fairy was a menace. He was never there when he could actually be of use, but he was more than willing to unexpectedly pop in and out of Sookie's life, leaving upheaval and danger in his wake.

Eric noticed this was a common trend among the men in Sookie's life. They would come and go quite frequently, each dragging her into some dangerous situation beyond her realm of experience or survival expertise. He was not sure why this bothered him so much, but it made his fists clench with anger. The rising anger fed a new rush of adrenaline into his system, making the scent of fairy even more potent and irresistible. He gave Claudine a hungry look, and she popped out of the kitchen before he could lose his self-control.

So, with no help from the fairies, he would have to resort to his own devices. This was not a concern. He had planned out his next few moves, and was certain that he would be close to finding her within the next two months. He still had one fallback option if his other methods failed to yield results.

It was the news, or lack thereof, from Claudine that had led him to his current predicament of working night in and night out with the vampire Bill Compton. He and Bill passed each night in front of Bill's computer, the dull light of the flat screen monitor reflecting off the pallor of their faces. Each night passed in much the same way: Eric would read aloud through a list of names he believed were the aliases of his less savory associates. Bill would then punch keys at vampire speeds, searching database after database. The two vampires would then pour through printed documents of addresses, bank accounts, criminal and tax records, and names of known associates attempting to link together pieces of the individual identities.

The individuals hiding behind these names were phantoms, as obscured and invisible as the false personas they created for their high-paying customers. This is why Eric chose them to safeguard his most precious asset—his bonded. Each phantom was adept at making some aspect of their human and supe customers disappear and then rise again in another form like a phoenix from the ashes.

Eric had established numerous identities and aliases for himself in this same fashion. Even Pam knew less than half of his existing personas. He questioned whether even he would be able to locate all of the individuals he had paid to forge papers, open ghost accounts, or act as references for loans or investments. He believed it would be next to impossible for anyone to ferret out her location or identity through his associates, even if the seeker were able to find and torture them all.

He knew that even for him finding the true identities of these individuals would be like finding a shadow in the depth of midnight darkness. He had made certain that he was unaware of the identities of the individuals who had prepared her new identity, lest he were tortured for the information. Still, he was not deterred. This was merely the first step of many he would take in finding his bonded.

The two vampires had set up working quarters in the room that Bill had converted into an office space. The room was dark with wood panels and blinds, and anchored by a large mahogany desk and padded leather office chair. Each night Bill would slump silently into his oversized chair in front of the computer with Eric standing watch behind him.

Conversation between the vampires was a rarity. Bill was still brooding over Eric's plan to locate Sookie. Eric had long grown bored of Bill's brooding. There was no tension or thickness in the air as there had been the day of the proposition, but their relationship was hardly friendly. In this matter, they were business associates, and that was all.

Being in such continuously close proximity with Bill led Eric to wonder what the man's life had been prior to finding Sookie in Bon Temps. He knew Bill had shared an unusually long and amorous relationship with his maker, but he sense there was much more to Bill than that. He saw that Bill had a darker side to his personality and an insecurity that sometimes clouded his judgment.

He also believed Sookie had freed some light that was buried within the brooding darkness of Bill's soul. Not for the first time he wondered, with considerable irritation, what sex with his bonded had been like for Bill. He had over a thousand years on this Earth, and as a vampire. It had been a long time since jealousy over human flesh had been a blip on his emotional radar.

Knowing Sookie had changed that. He had coveted her when he first met her. There was no one single reason he was drawn to her. It was really more of a sensation, like centrifugal force—as if she was a black hole with all things gravitating toward her at the center. Once he had finally tasted her, the gravitational pull was fully exerted, and he was matter displaced somewhere into her unfathomable depths. It sounded ridiculous even in the solitude and privacy of his own head, but it was still his truth.

He had fought against this truth for so long that it was uncomfortable to admit these things even in his own mind. It was this discomfort and denial that had caused him to forfeit any chance he had with her. When Niall suggested a plan for her to go into hiding with no chance of being found for her own safety, he had been all too eager to find a way to remove her from danger, but also from his mind.

He had been drawn to her, for better or worse, and he was not going to lose her. But, at the same time, he was unwilling to reconcile his feelings for her. He had taken what he thought was the higher, and more sacrificial, role of forfeiting his opportunity to have her for his own. Now, years later, he understood that this was the same sacrifice Bill had made.

He stared at the back of Bill's head and wondered for a moment what it would be like to have his bonded's abilities. Out of curiosity, he closed his mind to all of the background noises of the room and silenced his own internal voice. His eyes bored into the back of Bill's head, as he tried to penetrate the invisible barriers between his and Bill's minds.

His concentration was so intense that silence in the room became tangible. He nearly jumped at the sound of the fabric of Bill's collared shirt as it rustled. Bill had turned around in his chair, for the first time since they'd started that night, and was staring back at Eric with an irritated expression on his translucently white face.

"What are you staring at?" Bill's voice was crisp with irritation.

"You." Eric's own voice was touched with a tinge of amusement.

"Clearly. Why?"

"I'm trying to read your mind." His voice lilted with amusement now. He was on the verge of a chuckle. He knew it was completely ridiculous, but he was a bit bored, and Bill's irritation was the most entertainment he'd had in days. Now he knew how his Child felt.

"What _are_ you talking about?" Bill was staring at him incredulously.

"You can be so obtuse, Bill. I think my explanation was quite clear. I'm trying to read your mind. I'd like to know what is going on in your head."

"Why?"

"Knowledge is power, obviously. But more than that, I'm curious."

"Since when have you ever been curious about anything relating to anyone other than you?" Bill's voice was now a mixture of irritation and sincere curiosity.

Eric was tempted to roll his eyes at Bill, but he thought better of it. It was a juvenile reaction that he reserved only for his private conversations with Pam. "As I said the other day, my friend, we've been acquainted a long time, but you do not _know_ me at all."

The words hung in the air between the two vampires. Bill looked curious, but wary. Eric was still focusing on Bill with an intensity that made the younger vampire shift uncomfortably in his seat. Eric could almost imagine the synapses firing off in the corners of the other vampire's brain. That is, if vampire brains functioned in that manner. He had met none who could explain, in any credible or logical way, the difference between the function of human organs and brains and vampire organs and brains.

He had read somewhere that human thoughts were basically generated by small neurological receptors in the brain. This biological discovery had intrigued him. He wanted to find out if these same impulses fueled a vampire's thoughts and decisions. He had contemplated using various methods of decapitation in an effort to obtain and preserve vampire brains. He wondered if the same process was applicable to their thought processes. He had attempted a few of these methods in his recent battles, but was disappointed when the vampires' bodies had all disintegrated into ash.

The two vampires were silent for another long period. Bill had returned to his work, and Eric was lost in the caverns of his own thought. Finally, Bill broke the silence. "I still do not understand why you are doing this, Eric. What can possibly be gained after so long?"

Eric detected the pain in Bill's voice. He knew instantly that Bill was referring to Eric's decision to locate Sookie, and he was losing his patience with respect to Bill's incessant and unrelenting questioning of his decision and motives. At the same time, however, he found in his newly contemplative mood that he was capable of sympathizing with Bill.

For a moment, he started at his ability to feel sympathy for his one-time rival. Certainly, this was a result of his renewed feelings for his bonded. It triggered the same vampire, survival-warning bells he'd lived with during the year preceding her departure. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but one he realized he'd missed. He'd become less sympathetic, and much more vampire-like in the years since she'd left and he'd blocked her from his thoughts.

"She is my bonded, Bill," he responded, thinking this statement was a more than adequate explanation for his actions.

Bill sighed with frustration. "I know this. It's not as if you'd ever let me forget it either," he said. Eric found it rather arch of Bill to express his bitterness in such a forthright manner, but said nothing. "I just think you are making a mistake."

Eric raised his eyebrow in Bill's direction, and Bill focused even more intently on the computer screen. "I know you love her, Bill. In some ways I'm sorry for you that it did not work out."

"In case you haven't noticed, Eric, _you_ are looking for _her_. I would say it didn't exactly work out for you either." Bill's voice was measured and calm, but it was also sincere. It was this rare sincerity that prevented Eric from reaching out and backhanding the man.

"I chose my path, Bill. I let her go, and to refresh your memory, I am largely responsible for her safety."

"And I chose mine. Are we so very different?" Bill leveled his eyes at Eric. The gaze was not unfriendly, or challenging. Instead, it was communicative. _Fool_, Eric thought, _he does not even realize that he gave her up only because he had no other choice. She refused him because of his stupidity, and he glorifies his actions to himself by pretending he let her go. Absurd_.

Eric's temper swelled, but he stamped it down. Bill's admission irritated Eric, because he did not wish his sacrifices to be lumped into a category with Bill's mistakes. However, he saw the utility in understanding this perspective.

Bill's words and the sincerity behind them reminded him of something that had plagued him even when Sookie had been within arms' reach. It was the idea that she refused to yield or to belong fully to any man. He'd wondered then about the depths of her feelings for any of her suitors, himself included. The one thing he shared in common with Bill, Sam, Alcide, and Quinn was that he was never certain of her feelings for him.

After the bonding in Rhodes he'd felt both her exhilaration and resentment, and he'd felt them in spades, but he'd never felt anything akin to what he believed "love" would feel like for a human. But, then, he would tell himself, Sookie also was not entirely human. She had aspects of her physiology and personality that were something "other" entirely. He could not expect her to feel or love in the way an ordinary human would. She would not be swept off her feet by passionate declarations of love and loyalty. And, thanks to Bill, Quinn, Alcide, her idiot brother, and to some extent, himself, she was unlikely to trust without reservation.

He thought many of these things might work in his favor. He had no intention of making insipid declarations of love. Such a tactic was so far beneath him he would not even know where to begin.

Yet, he could see Bill's point. If he were a lesser man, he might have been dissuaded by the notion that he had been no closer to inspiring her affection than any of her other suitors. But, he was not a lesser man. He had been long on this Earth and had a greater insight into her mind than any of the other men had.

"I have no intention of settling for the notion that she was brought into my life to capture my attention and then walk back out of it." He was surprised at his own honesty, but supposed there was no real reason to skirt the truth.

Bill spread his hands in a gesture as if to say "And?"

Eric could not believe Bill's stubbornness. Had he not just clarified everything? Did Bill not understand that the difference between them lay not in their situation, but in their very characters? "I told you, Bill, that I understand what you are saying." He responded, purposefully allowing his impatience to creep through his words. "You lost her. I lost her. The shifter lost her. The were lost here. The tiger lost her. I understand all of this, but it is completely irrelevant. What you do not understand is what is most important."

"Which is?" Bill hissed through pursed lips, clearly irritated at Eric's condescending tone.

Eric pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and briefly wondered if he would end up needing to spell it out for Bill to understand. "The difference between all of us is that you gave up before your real chance even began. I, on the other hand, will find her, and I will win her." His tone of voice indicated that the matter was closed for discussion.

Bill sighed, shaking his head, and turned back toward the screen. "I just hope you know what you're doing, Eric."

Eric snorted. "That's hardly your concern, Compton." Bill stiffened but said nothing.

Another half an hour passed in silence while Bill scrolled through pages of data that Eric did not understand. He began to drift into downtime as the fluid sound of clicking of the keys became a soothing whir of white noise. The hour was approaching midnight, and he knew both vampires would need to depart in search of their meals. His mind drifted for a moment back to his early days at Fangtasia and the strange feeling of power that insignificant little place had brought him.

His position in the vampire hierarchy, combined with his looks and sexual prowess, had assured him a certain amount of power in both the vampire and human communities. Even when vampires were forced to exist in a shadowy half-life, he had enjoyed his fair share of power and mainstreaming. He'd always been careful to glamour his women into forgetting only the fact that he had fangs and had drunk their blood. He let them remember everything else. They'd always come back for more, and he was never hungry.

Still, the freedom to be what he was out in the open with throngs of worshipping humans at his feet was an intoxicating feeling. Had he been younger, or less in control of his emotions, it might have gone to his head and made him power hungry. As it was, mental control had always been his forte. He had enjoyed the simplicity of running a profitable business, being worshipped, and mostly flying under the radar of the higher echelons of the vampire hierarchy.

Eric was distracted from his reverie but the rush of air that swept his face as Bill moved at vampire speeds to another part of the office, grabbing some sort of makeshift manual from one of his bookshelves. When he returned, Eric could read that it was some sort of guide, with advice for reading and entering certain types of code.

"I think I may have found something," Bill said as he rapidly scribbled notes onto a legal-sized pad. His excitement was palpable, and Eric leaned in to see what possible discovery he could have made. It would have been their first "break" in two weeks and sixty names. "I think I may have found a connection between a Cayman Island bank account and one of your contacts."

"How can you be sure?"

"Well, I cannot be sure, of course, but it's a start." Bill whipped out his phone and was dialing a number while Eric read the information on the screen. None of it looked familiar. He watched Bill expectantly.

"Yes, thank you Lisa. I am calling because I need to update some information on my account. I first need to verify the addresses you have on file because I may need to update them." Eric raised his eyebrows at these words. Bill had already noted three different addresses on his notepad.

Eric could hear a heavily accented alto voice from other end of the line. "Of course, sir. First, I'll just need to verify some personal information."

"Of course," Bill replied smoothly.

"Thank you, sir. I'll just need your name and account number or social security number."

"Of course, the name is Winston Churchman, and my account number is TS-155-19888." Bill was reading from his notebook, which was covered with neat scribbles of configurations of words and numbers. Eric rolled his eyes at the name Bill gave. He could not believe whoever had opened the account could have chosen such an obviously fake name without raising any suspicions. But then, he thought, most humans were non-confrontational and afraid of offending. They probably hadn't wanted to comment on the odd name, or just did not care who their customers really were.

"Thank you Mr. Churchman, I have your account open in front of me. Now, I'll just need to ask you a few security questions."

"Yes, of course, one moment please." Bill resumed his brisk typing and another page opened on the computer screen. It was again labeled with the bank's name and was covered with code. Eric could make out the letters and numbers Bill had provided as the account number. This information was embedded in a series of symbols, letters and numbers. Eric was impressed with Bill's computer prowess and vowed to learn these tricks for himself. He had some skill with computers and the Internet, but was by no means as proficient as Bill.

Bill jotted a few additional notes on his page before asking the woman to continue. "When was your last deposit?" she asked.

"March of 2010, I believe."

"Thank you. When was your last transfer or withdrawal from the account?"

Bill consulted his notes again. "Well, it looks like I transferred funds to a linked account approximately one week ago."

"Thank you. And, what is your mother's maiden name, please?"

"Carter." Bill rolled his eyes, and Eric suppressed a laugh. Whichever of Eric's nameless and faceless associates had set up this account was brazen with a smarmy and arrogant sense of humor. He would have fun smoking this associate out of his protective hole. He wondered if it was a vampire or a human.

"Thank you Mr. Churchman, and how may I assist you with your account this evening?"

"I would like to know what address is currently on file, and when I last updated it, please?" Eric looked at Bill questioningly, but Bill just smiled.

"One moment, please. Yes, I have 2558 Delancey Street, Philadelphia Pennsylvania . . . and . . . it shows that you last updated this address in 2010." Bill crossed a line through the Delancey Street address on his paper, and circled another address that appeared to be on the same street.

"If you would please update the address to 4889 21st Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."

"Yes, sir. I've updated that for you. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?"

"No, that will be all, thank you." He snapped his cell phone shut and flashed Eric a quick, tight-lipped smile. It was the equivalent of a broad grin for Bill. He was clearly quite pleased with himself.

"The twenty-first street address, why did you choose it?" Eric questioned, as he reviewed Bill's notes.

"I think it, like the Delancey address, is a fronted address. There are a few utility bills connected with that address, and they are addressed to an LLC. A five minute search will tell us more about that particular business."

Eric saw where Bill was going with this, and he admired the vampire's thinking. "So, any correspondence from the bank regarding account changes, if the owner has them mailed, are less likely to be opened. This could be very useful. It will at least buy me some time."

Eric sat down in one of the smaller armchairs in Bill's office, crossed his legs at his ankles, and his arms over his chest. He settled into his thinking position, and Bill went back to work ferreting out information about the business maintained at the fronted address. It would be relatively easy to find the individual behind the accounts. Now that Bill had obtained such personal and important information, it was certain that Eric would not only find the individual, but that he could ensure they would speak to him.

"Bill," he said so suddenly that the other vampire jumped slightly in his office chair. Bill had been so engrossed in his online searching that he started at the unexpected sound of Eric's voice. Bill turned to look at him with something akin to enthusiasm in his eyes. He was clearly eager for another task. "I have an idea, and I will need your assistance. I need you to set up an account that cannot be traced back to me. Once that is done, I will need to transfer about half of the funds from Churchman's Cayman account into the new one. You can do this, correct?"

Bill's answering response was a mischievous grin. "You already have an account with a Swiss bank. I will transfer the funds, and then give you the information you need. What are you going to do with it?"

"Oh, I'm going to use it as incentive for cooperation."

_TBC . . . _

A/N: I apologize for the absurd length of this chapter. However, I thought it was all appropriately relevant, and I wanted to capture the tone of the two weeks that have passed. I also apologize for the length of the delay since the last time I posted. On a happier note, the next chapter is almost done!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**: Disclaimer: As always, I do not own the Southern Vampire Mysteries. Sole copyright belongs to Charlaine Harris.

* * *

Eric could feel the irresistible pull of nighttime yanking him out of his daytime stupor. Any other night, Eric would have flung himself from his travel coffin with youthful and enthusiastic abandon. Fueled by his inherent exuberance and the prospect of closing in on his bonded's location, each night had become its own mini adventure and he eagerly anticipated each one.

Tonight was different. Tonight, Eric was fighting the inevitable pull in earnest. He was willing his eyelids shut, and fighting against the ingrained restlessness of his waking muscles. His eyelids fluttered again, and he pressed them closed. He wanted to go back to her. He wanted to touch, kiss, hold, smell, and be inside her.

It was so real, his vision of her. They were walking . . . on a beach, of all places. It was dark, and the horizon was a tapestry of midnight blue and black, studded with the flickering white of stars. The salty sea air crept into his nostrils, and the taste buds of his tongue. The light breeze coming in off the Gulf of Mexico swirled around his bonded, causing her golden hair to sway and dance ever so lightly around her shoulders. The pale light of the moon illuminated her lightly tanned skin. She was so beautiful.

They were barefooted. The soft and grainy sand clung to the skin between his toes. It had been a long time since he'd experienced this sensation. It was strange but inviting, much like the vision itself. The mood of their interaction was light, but reserved.

It seemed to Eric that they were . . . what was the human turn of phrase . . . catching up? They held hands lightly, but that was the limited extent of the physical contact. He wondered at this dream version of himself who was being so careful and reserved with Sookie. She looked so tantalizing bathed in the delicate moonlight. Her hair and skin shone, and her soft curves were accented in a way that made her appear both delicate and buxom. He ached for the touch of her skin and lips, and wondered how dream Eric could resist her.

He couldn't recall the words she spoke, or the things they chuckled about, but he slept with a restfulness and lightness of spirit that he had not felt for centuries. As his body woke despite his waning efforts to sleep, he swore he could feel the sticky layering of salt crystals that sea air leaves coating the skin. He wiggled his toes hoping to feel the chafing sensation of sand between the digits. He felt nothing but his own cool skin.

It was rare for him to dream. It was an even greater rarity for him to remember having a dream. This was the first time anything he'd imagined during his daytime stupor had felt so real. He thought perhaps this held some significance for him. He lay still in the comfort of his silk lined coffin and tried to visualize his search. He hoped whatever path he took it would lead him to the beach scene he had dreamed about.

Two weeks had passed since Bill's discovery of Winston Churchman and his Cayman bank account. True to his word, Bill had commandeered the bank account and transferred half of the funds to the untraceable Swiss bank account accessible only by either Eric or Bill. The sum of money transferred turned out to be roughly five million dollars.

Eric had been pleased when he'd found out the sum was rather large. He could leverage the return of the money for information on his bonded's whereabouts. He was certain cooperation would be forthcoming where such a large sum of money was concerned. At least, he hoped it would be. He had no desire to torture this business associate. Such an act might make its way back to his other associates, causing them to shore up their tracks. This would necessitate the expenditure of additional time and energy on his part.

Both Eric and Bill had spent the last two weeks seeking out individuals possibly connected to the Cayman Islands account. They narrowed down the possibilities to two people. A brief phone call to one of the individuals confirmed the identity of the account holder. It had taken less than fifteen minutes to convince the man that meeting with Eric in person was the only way to secure return of the transferred funds.

Eric knew instantly that the individual he was dealing with was not a vamp. It always amazed Eric that many humans could not tell whether someone was a vampire until it was too late for it to matter. Vampires, however, with their heightened sensory receptors could tell almost immediately whether they were dealing with another of their kind. Younger vampires are not as skilled at recognizing the vocabulary and cadence of vampires, but a vampire as ancient as he rarely experienced any difficulty in this regard.

It was time now for Eric to play his part. He pushed up against the heavy satin-lined wood of his travel coffin and looked around the small hotel room. It was not up to his typical standards in terms of comfort or spaciousness, but that was the idea. If he was going to blend into the seedy underworld, he needed to look the part. He needed to be the part. If anyone was sent to watch his movements, a fancy hotel room would blow his cover.

He was to meet with Winston Churchman that evening. He had completed additional reconnaissance and preparations for the meeting. From everything he had found, the man masquerading as Winston Churchman was a Were, from an old and wealthy Philadelphia family.

As it turned out, the Were had deviated from the more upstanding and non-criminal paths his other family members had taken. He had turned his back on the family heritage and business to pursue his seedier connections. This was a man who often burned bridges in his personal life. It was unfortunate that he was full-blooded Were because were it not for his ability to breed another full-blooded Were, this man would not be missed by his family members.

Churchman, as Eric had discovered over the past two weeks, was the antithesis of anything proper, old, and wealthy. He was an "anything-for-hire" man whose fierce reputation preceded him. This, of course, was not the identity the man had used when Eric retained his services. The man Eric had retained was an invisible face with the false name of Ernie Johnson. Ernie Johnson had, however, come highly recommended by one of Eric's most trusted daytime associates.

True to this recommendation, Churchman, whose real name Eric had discovered was William Leighton, had done a thorough job of creating a series of bank accounts for his bonded by transferring money from both Sookie's and Fangtasia's bank accounts through various channels that were unknown to him. The transfers were untraceable. A string of funeral insurance and other dummy expenses had been created to siphon the money from Sookie's account, and "back-pay" from several non-existent jobs was created to siphon money from Fangtasia's accounts. To anyone besides him or Churchman, the transfers all appeared "above board."

He was hoping this Churchman would have some insight into the status of his bonded's finances, or at least some knowledge of those who did. It was likely that someone involved in Churchman's line of business would have contacts at many of the institutions he manipulated.

To obtain this information from Churchman, Eric had disguised himself as the minion of a powerful and secretive vampire. He would claim to be from a Canadian province, a bounty hunter of sorts who has been hired to track down someone who had stolen from his Master's personal wealth and business. The odds were in his favor that Churchman would possess some knowledge of vampire hierarchy and morals. He would be less likely to question Eric's motivation if stolen finances were involved. This would provide the perfect entrée and cover for Eric's true purpose in meeting with the Were.

Of course Churchman was not privy to the motivations of the clients whose identities he was contracted to scrub or protect. But knowing the entrepreneurial nature of a man in this business, Churchman likely kept some sort of record of the accounts and identities he created, and any associates who helped him create them. It was only good business to keep loose tabs on someone who may owe you a favor or service someday.

It would be no simple matter to convince a man like Churchman to reveal the type of information Eric was seeking. Like Eric, and the part Eric intended to play, this man had a reputation to uphold. If it were known in Churchman's business circles he'd given up sensitive information involving one of his high-paying clients, his ability to obtain future business would be jeopardized. Still, once Eric had the man's trust and fear, he would "make it an offer he couldn't refuse." If Churchman provided Eric with the information he sought, the Were would live and get his money back.

Eric smirked at the expression he'd borrowed from the gangster movies. He'd seen many of them, and was always amused by the clichés that emerged from them. He flashed himself a mischievous smile as he regarded his reflection with interest. He had not donned a "disguise" in quite some time.

His own appearance was often sufficiently intimidating so he rarely concealed it. It was exciting, yet unfulfilling for him to complete this type of mission as someone else. He enjoyed the art of deception, but he regretted that it was this bounty hunter rather than the Viking warrior that the arrogant Were would fear.

The dark brown wig and prosthetic nose rendered him as close to unattractive as he would ever get. The fabric of the inexpensive suit he had purchase was far less comfortable than his everyday attire, but it would suffice. He looked like hired help. Actually, he looked like very large and very dangerous hired help. The stainless steel chain necklace and cross he wore around his neck added the finishing touch to the ensemble.

He had already memorized his identity and his lines. He was Dominic Porto. He was something of a refugee from the former Kingdom of New York. He had fled to Canada in response to the upheaval after the werewolves' great reveal. He would make it known that he was no coward and would have relished the idea of battle, but that he saw greater opportunity for financial prosperity North of the border.

He would make Churchman laugh and joke about the unpredictability of the financial markets. He would regale the Were with stories of the opponents he'd torn apart limb by limb. He would instill in Churchman the appropriate combination of curiosity and fear. When he'd earned the man's trust in the promise that he would return his money, he would strike with his request.

He ran the comb through his hair once more and admired his much altered reflection in the mirror. He smoothed the seams of his pinstriped suit and straightened his tie at the center of his broad chest. He flashed himself a fangy smile and then exited the hotel through a side staircase. This motel was too seedy for a security camera, and he was alone in the corridor. He doubted anyone would be brave enough to look him in the face in order to remember him.

When Eric reached the streets, he traveled by way of the alleys. The odor of trash and urban decay crept into his nostrils. It burned at them similar to yet different from the salty sea air in his vision of her. The gritty northeast Philadelphia neighborhood that would serve as the backdrop for their meeting was a world away from Churchman's affluent upbringing. He marveled that someone who was not a vampire could exist the way Churchman did—torn between two worlds.

Eric surmised that the Were's adaptability would make him easier to negotiate with. He felt confident that he would leave this meeting with the information he came for and the Were still living. His long strides were measured and confident as he moved silently past the graffiti-covered brick walls. He could feel his skin gather and prickle with exhilaration. The blood flowed more quickly through his body, and his fangs sprang halfway forth from the rush of adrenaline—or whatever mechanism fueled the vampire version of this response.

His search for his bonded may have started in the quiet comfort of Bill's study and those first steps might have been the most critical. But to him, _this_ was what it was all about. He was out in the night. He was in his element. He could hear and sense the creatures of the night—the rats, roaches, and perceptive homeless humans—scatter at his approach. He could picture the exploitable Churchman, whose ego would be his next conquest. This was what he existed for. This was what made him vampire. This was the hunt.

_TBC . . . ._

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A/N: Whew, okay. We're wrapping up the foundation-laying introductory chapters and moving into what (I think) are the more interesting aspects of the story. Anyhow, it will probably take me another week or two to post Chapter 6 because it is detailed, I am short on time, and I have to work on Chapter 8 for my Pam POV. But, I will post as soon as I am able. Thanks for reading! Hope you're all enjoying it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: _Sookie's POV—This chapter takes place approximately two years prior to the starting point of Eric's search (so, approximately 3 years after Nevada takeover_).

**A/N**: I'm afraid this chapter may raise more questions than it answers. But, I think it will be an interesting segue into Sookie's part of the story. Sorry, this is how she decided to speak with me, and she's the heroine, so I kinda listen to her. Hope you enjoy reading it s much as I enjoyed writing it.

Disclaimer: Sole copyright belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm just having a little fun with the intriguing characters she has created.

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Sookie never realized how many different colors the human race had created until she picked up her latest color wheel from Home Paints. The saleslady assisting her had filled Sookie's head with so many different colors and schemes—monochromatic, analogous, complementary, split complementary, and tetradic—that her head was swimming. Actually, it sort of ached.

She had driven to the Home Paints store in Gulfport, Mississippi, with the intention of buying some shade of yellow paint. She thought yellow the perfect color for the spare room she was painting. She thought for sure that she would waltz in through the store's front doors, pick up the perfect can of paint and waltz right back through the doors in under half an hour.

Sookie could not have underestimated the process of buying paint any more than she had. By the time she was pulling her silver Honda into the parking lot of her condo building, two hours had passed. She had her paint cans, though; at least she could say that much.

She wrestled the cans of paint out of her car, into the condo elevator, and out onto the landing of the fifth floor. The bookish looking man in the elevator gave her a curious glance before averting his eyes as he watched her struggle with the paint cans. She quickly threw up her shields. She had no desire to know what this man was thinking about her.

Sookie considered herself a strong and sturdy girl, but these cans of paint were heavy! She tried to walk another few steps with the three paint cans, but was soon panting. She set one down, pulled out her keys, and carried the other two in the direction of her condo.

It was still a strange experience for her to live in a building inhabited by so many other people. She had grown up in semi-isolated single-family dwellings in middle-of-nowhere Bon Temps Louisiana. Gulfport wasn't a huge city, and it was still in the South, so geographically it was somewhat familiar to her. Everyday living was still as different from her time in Bon Temps as it could be.

She supposed it would take time to adjust to this new place. She'd only lived in Gulfport and this condo for about three months. She knew it was normal to feel alone, out-of-place, and apprehensive about being in a new place.

Until three or so years ago she'd only toyed with the idea of moving out of her Gran's house. She'd even had the opportunity once, when someone had set the old place on fire. It had been nice to have a smaller, modern and compact home. But she'd quickly forgotten the idea when the new kitchen allowed her to enjoy her family homestead even more than she had before.

She hadn't really considered the idea of moving again, let alone into a big condo building with so many other brains buzzing away around her. But that was a long time ago, and a lot of things had happened in the intervening years. Her world had opened up pretty quick, and she had opened up with it.

When the weres outed themselves, and war broke out among the supes, her position was more precarious than ever. Those she loved left her no choice but to hide. She was a soft spot for so many powerful supes that there was no hope of them keeping her safe as they had in the years before the Nevada takeover and were revelation. She had no choice but to leave the only place she'd ever called home.

At first she went somewhere she thought no one would dream of looking for her. The strangest thing about that period of time was the not knowing. She knew only what little she could glean from supes that she met, and reading between the lines in the local and national newspapers. She knew many were dead, among them Russell Edgington, the late King of Mississippi.

Sookie's gut told her that all she cared for were safe and sound. It made sense to her that they would be. They had all seemed so powerful and scary. No matter how she'd felt the need to protect them, she knew that they were always protecting her when she was not looking. It was this confidence in their strength and abilities that told her most, if not all, of those she had once called her friends and family were still alive.

Well, that and the fact that an entirely new hierarchy had been created when "the good guys" won the war.

The whole thing was very complicated, and she was no longer involved in the supe world, so she didn't know the details. All she knew was that there was some council of supernaturals that had replaced the old system of Kings and Queens. All supe factions had a representative, or liaison to this Council. Oh, and she knew that the AVL no longer existed, and that somehow this new council operated parallel to the human system of government.

To Sookie, it was just more complex supernatural bullshit. She was certain that behind whatever friendly façade the supernatural community had erected, there was ever more sinister behavior going on behind the scenes.

Okay, so sometimes she missed it . . . especially when she was stuck here in her Yuppie suburban lifestyle. She couldn't think about that, though. Her life had just become even more complicated than before, and she still had a room to paint. In order to do that she had to get her paint cans into her condo. That was turning out to be more of a struggle than she had bargained for. Beads of sweat were starting to break out around the edge of her hairline.

"Do you need some help there hon?" One of Sookie's neighbors had opened the door to their condo and stepped out into the hall. Sookie recognized this neighbor from their brief conversations on the elevator. Her name was Maura, and she had dark brown hair, pale skin and large very dark brown eyes. Sookie thought she looked like a real-life Snow White.

Maura was not a loud broadcaster, but Sookie had heard enough to know that she suffered from low self-esteem. She was also extremely self-conscious about the paleness of her skin. She was eager to make new friends, and thought that Sookie looked the right age and personality.

Sookie was grateful for the help. "Yes! Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. They're so heavy, you know?"

Maura laughed. "Oh, tell me about it! I just repainted the main living area of my condo a few months ago. Lugging these things around is no fun at all!"

Sookie set down the cans of paint she was carrying long enough to place her key in the lock on her door. She turned the lock, giving the door a little nudge with her hip—sometimes it stuck—and pushed in. Maura followed closely behind, trying to look discreet as she scoped out Sookie's condo.

"Your place is super cute!" She said as she took in Sookie's tidy apartment furnished with cool colors and modern décor—the opposite of anything she would typically buy for herself. All of her furniture was modern and sleek. Her couch was a large, leather and cream-colored. Her walls were decorated with stylish, but impersonal art deco prints. Flanking her couch were two espresso colored bookshelves covered with her favorite novels—the only thing she carried with her from her old life. Everything about her apartment reflected this: It was all classy but impersonal, and distinctly not Sookie-like.

"Thanks," Sookie smiled as she put down the can of paint. Her shields were working in full force, so she couldn't tell whether Maura was sincere in her compliment, but the girl was nodding approvingly. "Honestly, you're my first visitor."

Maura whirled around to face her, momentarily taking her eyes off of Sookie's displayed prints. "Really? But you've lived here for a while, right?"

Sookie blushed and knew that her Gran would have scolded her for her lack of hospitality and Southern graciousness, but she had her reasons. And they were good ones. "Well, I'm sort of shy." She lied as her awkward smile spread across her face.

"Aw, honey, I'm not insulting you, it's just a little strange, that's all." Maura gave her a sympathetic smile, and Sookie allowed her shields to drop.

_Poor girl. All alone with no friends. She's clearly not from around here or she'd have visitors. I wonder if it'd be impolite to ask. Well, I oughtta get to know her better before I go diggin' around in her personal affairs. No personal photos or knick-knacks . . . how strange. Bet she has some dark secret past or something. My mama always used to say it was the quiet, polite ones you had to watch out for . . . ._

She was relieved to find that Maura's thoughts were fairly innocent. Sookie had never been one to need, or even want a lot of friends, but being alone in yet another new place came with its share of loneliness. Even someone as independent and hard-hearted as Sookie Stackhouse was not immune to loneliness.

"Would you like some iced tea, lemonade, or something else to drink?" Sookie asked, remembering her manners.

"Thanks, but maybe another time. I was actually on my way out. You know how it is on Sunday, or as I like to call it . . . _chore day_." Maura stuck out her tongue a bit, and made an unpleasant face. Well, as unpleasant a face as someone like Maura could possibly make.

Sookie thought that in terms of style Maura reminded her a lot of her old friend Amelia. She was probably in her mid-thirties and had a sporty, "soccer mom" look to her. She was energetic, trim, and fresh-faced. She was wearing white Capri pants, white flip-flops with beading on the thongs, and a light blue and white-striped polo shirt. She was pretty and well put-together. She was someone Sookie thought she could possibly be friends with.

"Oh yes, another time, definitely. I guess it's better anyhow. I really should get ready to go to work." It was Sookie's turn to make a face.

"Oh, where do you work?" Sookie could sense Maura's curiosity heighten.

Maura was definitely a gossip. She was a sweet and harmless, but definitely a gossip. Maura was thinking that it had been a long time since she had met someone new because her husband was a drag who did not like to socialize. She was thinking that Sookie would be the perfect person to bring to her book club and introduce to her few female friends. She wondered whether they would find her new friend as mysterious as she did.

"Oh, I work as a cocktail waitress at a restaurant in The Gulf casino a few nights a week, and as a librarian at the local library a few days a week."

"How interesting!" Maura's eyes lit up. She was intrigued by what she perceived as a striking contradictionbetween the types of jobs that Sookie worked. She also thought it was so lucky that her neighbor was fairly young and pretty. She thought Sookie would make an excellent club-hopping partner . . . if only she could trick her husband into letting her out.

Sookie couldn't imagine needing to "trick" a husband or boyfriend into letting her do something. If any man tried to control her like Maura's husband seemed to . . . well, let's just say that relationship wouldn't last long.

As for Maura's husband, Sookie had seen him only once or twice in the elevator. His name was Rick, and he was some type of doctor who worked odd hours. He was also very handsome, but also very rigid and intimidating.

In her head she laughed at her current situation. She was living in a condominium with doctors for neighbors. No one from Bon Temps would ever believe it. Hell, she almost didn't believe it herself. But that was the entire idea, wasn't it? She was supposed to make it impossible for anyone to find her were they to look—even those friendly to her.

Sookie had no doubt that she was safe here. No one who knew anything about her, or took the time to do a little background research on her, would believe she was living in such a nice place. She had never had money and had never been one to accept money or gifts.

Those aspects of her personality had changed in the course of twenty-four hours. It was the strangest twenty-four hours of her life. She still avoided thinking about it.

"Well, it's not that interesting, really." Sookie set the paint cans down on the floor of her kitchen.

If Sookie really loved anything about her condo, it was her kitchen. Its previous owner had clearly been a chef or someone who enjoyed cooking and wanted the props to do it. The stove and refrigerator were top of the line. Every appliance was sleek and top of the line. Her refrigerator was stainless steel and large with numerous compartments and shelving that made organizing food incredibly simple. Her favorite features, however, were the spacious granite countertops and deep farm-style sink.

Yes, this was a luxurious place where no one would ever expect to find Sookie, the "poor country cousin." Not even Eric, who knew her so well, would expect to look for her in a place like this.

"Well sure it is, honey," Maura said. "I mean, a librarian who works in a casino . . . and as a cocktail waitress! That's just too funny for words."

Sookie thought she could see the irony in the idea of a librarian working as a cocktail waitress—the epitome of non-intellectual jobs—but since she'd been a barmaid her whole life, she didn't think anything of it. "Well, I guess you could say that I like to keep things interesting."

"I guess so."

The conversation was beginning to die down as Sookie and Maura realized they needed to go their separate ways. But, both were extremely lonely and enjoying the conversation. Sookie was surprised to find herself so receptive to human interaction. She found her neighbor slightly nosy and a bit on the ditzy side. She was also reticent to share anything that could lead to disclosure of her true identity. But, she couldn't seem to bring herself to ask the woman to leave.

"Well, I guess I had better be going now," Maura interjected into the silence. "I don't want to be out too late, you know!"

"I don't blame you. It's nice to get home from running errands and have some time to yourself to relax." Sookie agreed. "Here, let me show you out."

"Oh, don't even bother honey. I'll let myself out. You need to get ready for work." Maura moved to turn toward the door. Sookie could hear the question forming in the woman's head and the embarrassment associated with it before Maura had decided she was going to ask it. Sookie was glad that she heard this broadcast. It gave her a chance to prepare herself.

"You know," Maura drawled apologetically, "I'm such an idiot. I know I know your name, but I'm so bad with them . . . ." Sookie fought to contain her giggles as she watched the red flush of embarrassment fill Maura's cheeks.

"Oh, no problem. I'm Sarah Anderson."

"Okay. Let me use that in a sentence so I'll remember it next time: It's a pleasure to meet you Sarah Anderson. You have a really cute apartment and an unusual life." She held out her hand.

Sookie took the extended hand, and shook. "It's nice to _really_ meet you, Maura . . . um . . . I guess I forgot yours too!"

"Engle. It's Maura Engle."

"Great! Nice to meet you."

Sookie stared after Maura as she left through the door of Sookie's apartment, a bubble of friendly, curious vivaciousness. Sookie wondered whether or not this was a friendship she could afford to keep. As much as she really wanted a friend in this new place, she was concerned that such a curious (borderline nosy) person would take great pains to find out the secret of Sookie's past. She wondered if she would be able to keep important details from slipping out when she grew comfortable in regular conversation with the woman.

. . . .

"Sarah! Sarah! Can you clear that table for me?"

Sookie went about her business clearing her own table as if no one was talking to her. In fact, she thought no one was talking to her.

"Sarah honey! Hello-o-o-o-o! Do we need to pitch in and buy you a hearin' aide or sumthin'?" Darla was yelling right in her ear, jerking her to attention.

"Oh gosh, Darla! I'm so sorry. I was off in my own world." Sookie covered this lie with her nervous smile.

Darla gave her funny look and walked away. Sookie strained her mind to keep her shields in place. She'd gotten really good at doing that over the last few years. She hardly heard anyone anymore . . . unless she wanted to, and unless they were a very, very strong broadcaster.

She pushed that thought right out of her mind. The strongest broadcaster she knew was her old roommate, Amelia. It had been three years since she'd spoken to Amelia . . . or anyone from Bon Temps. This thought caused a knot to form in the center of her chest.

_Get it together, Sook_. _You know you're not allowed to think about this stuff! This is what leads to lapses. Lapses are what lead to sloppiness. Sloppiness can lead to exposure. Pull yourself together!_

Sookie shook her head and moved to clear the open table Darla had indicated. It was a Sunday night, but the casino restaurant was doing a brisk business. Sookie had always liked a lot of work. It helped take her mind off the things she didn't want to think about . . . usually.

She supposed it wasn't busy enough to help take her mind off of her conversation with Maura, and the feelings it had stirred up within her. She hadn't felt such intense loneliness and frustration since her first weeks alone and away from Bon Temps. It had been tough to move past those feelings, and make the transition to her new situation. But, in her opinion, the trauma of moving so far from home was far outweighed by the other tragedies she had experienced, and the risks she would have incurred had she chosen to remain.

As soon as the images filtered into her head, she pushed them aside. She was a tough girl. She was a Stackhouse. She was her Gran's girl, and she had the ferocity of fae blood coursing through her veins.

In the past, her supernatural nature was a source of confusion and strife for her. In her new life, it was a saving grace. It was a cold comfort she could lean on when the unpleasantness of her new life threatened to consume her fighting spirit.

This was one of those times. She imagined the ferocity of Claudine in battle and the fear and awe her grandfather's very presence instilled within her. She imagined that she too possessed this awe-inspiring strength and toughness. It would help her keep her mind on the present . . . the need to be Sarah Anderson, and everything that she entailed.

. . . .

It was a good night for Sookie. She made more in one night at the casino restaurant than she would have in several days working at Merlotte's back in Bon Temps. Gulfport was no teeming metropolis, and the customers at The Gulf Casino's upscale restaurant Renaud'swere not usually millionaires. But Sookie noticed that when ordinary people spent money in casinos, they meant business. The most ordinary of folksflung one hundred dollar bills as if their wallets had been touched by Midas himself.

She pulled off her uniform of fitted black pants and a white collared shirt and threw them into the hamper. _What a liberating feeling_, she thought. Being free of the uniform that belonged not to her but to Sarah Anderson was like being freed from a cage.

She could still smell the residual food odors that accompanied restaurant work. It was time for a bath and satchel. She tossed a tropical rainforest-scented satchel into the hamper on top of her clothing and flung open the doors to her linen closet.

She bent down to pull her soft, white terry cloth robe from the lowest shelf and her eyes caught a glimpse of something shimmering. The bottle was sitting in its usual spot toward the front right side of the second shelf from the floor of her closet.

She knelt so that the bottle was at eye level. She stared at the crystal bottle and its lavender liquid contents with curiosity. It had been a gift from her cousin Claudine the week before she left her home for good.

She and Claudine had been sitting side-by-side at one of numerous conferences they'd had with Niall, Eric, Bill, Pam, and Amelia. The others all argued vehemently over each possible option available to ensure Sookie's fate. Everyone had their own idea about how to keep her safe. Of course, each thought their own idea superior to all others.

Voices were raised and fangs were exposed. It was the perfect opportunity for Claudine to tug at Sookie's hand and signal to her to duck quietly out of Eric's great room and into one of his studies.

After the ebbs and crescendos of argument, the silence of the study was deafening. Claudine settled her tall, curvaceous body on the edge of a mahogany desk. _Wow_, Sookie had thought to herself, _Eric's furniture is so beautiful . . . and expensive . . . of course._ A pang of sadness hit her as she thought this. She hadn't known at the time, but this was to be the last time she'd ever look at Eric's furniture . . . or even set foot in his home for that matter.

For a moment Claudine just looked at Sookie, as if taking her in. "It's the strangest feeling," she said finally. "I've known you for only a tiny fraction of my life, but you're family and I feel like I've known you forever."

"I know. Maybe I could change my mind, and decide not to go."

"You know that is impossible. And, Niall was serious about using magic."

Sookie sighed. "I know. I'm not going to change my mind. It's just . . . well, this is the only home and life I've ever known. I don't know if I can do this alone."

"Well kid, you don't really have a choice. Besides, you're tough. You're stubborn. You're a survivor. You're going to be fine. Besides, I have a little present for you."

"A present? I seriously hope you didn't spend any money on me. You know I won't accept it Claudine! That was the deal. I said 'no presents!'"

"It's not that kind of present," Claudine rolled her eyes. "Take this, and use it when you need to remember . . . but not for sorrow." Claudine whispered to her as she placed the delicately carved decanter into Sookie's hands.

"I don't understand." She had turned the bottle over in her hand. A faint glow emanated from the pale purple liquid as it sloshed back and forth in the bottle.

"Think of it as aromatherapy with a kick!" Claudine exclaimed. Her large eyes were bright and her voice bubbled with enthusiasm. "I only wish I could be there when you use it. It will be amazing!"

"How do I _use_ it?" Sookie asked. She was a little suspicious. It wasn't that she distrusted Claudine or her intentions. She just had no desire to imbibe any magical fairy potion. She had enough problems without the possibility of having an unpredictable reaction to a fae concoction with no fae in the vicinity to help her. "And what _is _it, really?"

"Well, it's a fairy thing." She explained with a tone that said it should have been obvious. "You put a drop . . . a very small drop . . . in a nice warm bath."

"Riiiight," Sookie responded. "I sorta got that it was a 'fairy thing.' I guess what I'm asking is . . . what does it _do_?"

"Oh, now I understand what you mean!" Claudine said brightly. "Well, what it does depends on what you want it to do."

Sookie could feel her temper starting to flare. Clearly Claudine was reluctant to give her details about the mysterious gift, but she was determined to have them. "What's the big secret, Claudine? Why won't you just tell me what the stuff does? I won't use it if I have no idea what it does."

"Gosh Sookie, you're a pain in my ass! Here I am giving you a gift fit for a fairy king, and you're asking me a bunch of questions." She let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Here goes. The gift itself is the liquid called Ambrosia. It was used by the Greek Gods." She said that last bit with as much fanfare as someone saying they fed it to their dogs on a daily basis.

"Basically," she continued, "it is a potion that soothes and relaxes the mind. It allows you to see things you wouldn't ordinarily see. How it works depends on what you feel you need to see. For example, if you're homesick just pour a drop into the warm bath water and imagine home."

Over three years had passed since that night in Eric's study. Sookie had never used the Ambrosia, though. She'd held the bottle, stared at it, removed the cap, and held it over her tub. One time about a year or so after her escape from Bon Temps she had held the bottle over the water so long that the smallest of drops escaped into the warm bath water below.

The smell had been heavenly. It was a combination of gardenias and an early summer night. The fragrance had tugged at her consciousness, practically willing her into the comfort of the water. She'd disrobed completely, and had submerged two toes. Finally, she grew afraid, took step back, inhaled, and released the drain. She had watched the fragrant lavender-tinged water swirl as it seeped down into the drain.

It had been a hard thing for her to do. She'd wanted to use the potion so bad at that time. It was a low, dark day. She had been living in a place so far from home and so foreign to her. Every single day was a struggle. She longed to go back to Bon Temps. She longed to go home.

She felt certain that somehow Claudine's precious gift could transport her there. Not physically, of course, but in her own mind in a manner that would make her feel as if she were actually there. It had only been her memory of Claudine's words . . . "but not for sorrow" that had stayed her curiosity.

Her instincts told her that a dark mood could yield dark memories. More bad memories were something she did not need.

To Sookie, that night was a lifetime ago. She had put several years and hundreds of miles between her present self and that lost, darker Sookie. _It's so tempting to try it now_, she thought as she rolled the tear-shaped bottle between her fingers, still standing in front of her closet. _There's no better time. My life will never be easy. It will never be simple. Part of me will always be alone and lonely. _

All these things she knew . . . had always known. The only difference was that she could now handle them with a grace and gentle optimism she'd never had before. She'd been so far removed from the bubble of her world for so long that she'd grown to fit her surroundings, rather than expecting things to happen the other way around.

She stood up with the bottle still in her hand and walked toward the almost-filled bathtub. Her bathroom was getting warmer, and the mirror was filling up with steam. She felt enveloped in warmth and safety. She inhaled deeply, and slid her terry bath robe over her bare shoulders.

This was always her favorite part of the day—the time of day where she could strip off the mask of her assumed identity, and the costume of her everyday life. It was exhausting being someone else all the time. In the quiet peacefulness of her bathroom with its cool blue walls and beach-styled watercolors, she was herself again. She could be nude—literally and figuratively—with abandon and without fear.

She allowed the briny water—_what was it about tap water near the ocean that made it seem a bit brackish?_—to fill the large claw-footed tub to a few inches from the edge. She cranked the old fashioned "spicket"-styled faucet until the water trickled to a slow drip, cracked the bath bomb Amelia gave her as a "good bye" gift into small pieces and dropped them into the water, spreading the layer of oily scent across the top of the water.

She slipped out of her robe and into the hot water. She leaned her head back against the soft, foamy bath pillow, enjoying the hot sting as her skin adapted to the water's temperature. There was something enticing about the pleasure and pain that came with the adjustment. It brought a small smile to the corners of her mouth.

For a few moments she lay still; just breathing in the aroma of the bath bomb. The slow drip of the leaky faucet into the tub water was constant and mesmerizing. Her thoughts were slow and her eyelids heavy. She could feel the tightness of her sore muscles fading away. The heavy weight that had burdened her chest began to melt away as if the bath were melting a restrictive frost encasing that had encumbered her soul.

_Yes,_ she thought, _this must be Heaven._ _Next time I'll try the fairy juice_. _That ought to be something_. It was her last thought before the comfort of sleep took her. Well, it was the second to last thought, at least. If she were truly honest with herself, her last waking thought was always the same: a pair of familiar and achingly beautiful blue eyes. Her memory was getting hazy and it was getting harder to remember the full face, but her memory of his eyes never faded. Next time she would definitely use the fairy juice. There were a few things she would like to remember . . . .

_TBC . . . ._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: _Alright everyone, we're back to Eric's POV and "the search." If you can't remember what's going on with his end of the story (because I took too damn long to update), you can re-read Chapter 5 (it's pretty short). Anyhow, there was a lot to cover in this chapter, so it might be a little full. I tried to make it flow, but feel free to critique on my efforts. Hope it works to your satisfaction. Cheers and enjoy!_

_Oh, and the inspiration for this chapter is this quote/these lyrics: "I play Russian Roulette everyday . . . a man's sport . . . with a bullet called Life. Yeah mama, called Life." _(from _Sugar_ by System of a Down)

* * *

Eric liked his odds. He conducted a quick sensory sweep of his surroundings as he sat waiting for Churchman in a dank, semi-dark room in an abandoned building that might have been a warehouse or factory at some time in the could vaguely smell the remnants of machine oil and rubber.

Mixing with these smells of industry were the vague scents of Eric's wig and prosthetics. The "Dominic Porto" persona he'd assumed and disguise he'd donned required these additions. At first it was a concern, but having smelt the residual rankness of factory, he concluded any odor his disguise gave off would be quickly subsumed by these other stronger odors. Yes, the Were's choice of venue was certainly working in his favor.

Were things to go South, he would have the advantage. He had imagined every possible attack and escape scenario. Using his vampire hearing and scent to determine the location of Churchman's guards and placement of the exits and windows, he devised fifty possible methods of attack and egress. Yes, though he had no weapons beyond his own mind and body, the odds were definitely in his favor.

_Two Weres on the other side of the rear door. Three Weres behind me at the main entrance. One vampire somewhere. Fool. _Eric cringed at the idea of a vamp working in the employ of werewolves. It was demeaning to any of his kind.

Eric waited patiently. His keen senses worked to take in every shift in the movement of air, and each subtle movement or sound that might alert him to the threat of danger. He had arrived nearly forty-five minutes earlier. Churchman was making a typical power play by keeping Eric waiting. Eric was quite familiar with this gamesmanship. Only, he never played it with other vampires.

Playing the waiting game with vampires accomplished little besides letting them know whoever had made the decision to keep them waiting was an amateur—at least with respect to vampires. Time only matters to mortals—whose pulses and breaths are measured and limited by the strictures of time. Vampires on the other hand, though often impatient and greedy, manifest these traits in ways wholly unrelated to time because in their mind, time is a valueless commodity.

When Churchman did enter the room, it was precisely as Eric had anticipated. His investigation into Churchman's affairs had been thorough—and the Were was as predictable as he'd surmised. He entered through the same entrance as Eric and was accompanied by two guards.

What Eric was not prepared for, however, was Churchman's appearance. He had been careful to keep his distance from the Were throughout his investigation. Consequently, he'd never actually laid eyes on the man.

Churchman was known for being extremely guarded with his appearance, but eccentric in his manner of dress. Like Eric or any individual involved in the high-stakes game of the supernatural underworld, he had many different disguises and identities. Physically, the Were was nothing spectacular. Slight with round features and a monochromatic color scheme, Churchman bore none of the physical attributes typically present in a male Were.

The two Weres accompanying Churchman in the room had placed themselves between Eric and the main door. These two would die first, if necessary. They looked ready for it too. Both had seen battle previously and their faces were heavily scarred. Churchman had not been their first underworld boss, and Eric was willing to bet whomever they'd previously served was significantly more powerful than Churchman. They would be the most difficult to kill, but not impossible.

Eric rose from his chair as Churchman approached. He did this both as a display of feigned respect—keeping up appearances—and also as a method of intimidation. Eric's size was an advantage, and he intended to use it for all it was worth.

He could feel the Weres' tension peak. They were uncomfortable with his sudden movement, but Eric was undeterred. He purposefully ignored the numerous guns that were now pointed in his direction and kept his gaze level with Churchman's.

The building Churchman had chosen for the meeting was gritty and decrepit. In the absence of talking and other man-made noises, Eric could hear each infinitesimal sound. He could hear the building creak and groan as it settled on its unstable foundation. He could hear the gentle drips of stagnant water in the piping hidden behind the grimy walls.

The silence was finally broken when Churchman spoke. "I still don't understand why you're here and what you want from me, Porto."

"Interesting. I thought my note was perfectly clear. You give me information . . . I give you your money back. Seems pretty straightforward to me."

The Were narrowed his eyes. He realized the vampire was having fun at his expense, and he didn't like it. For a man in his position, it was not a situation in which he found himself often. "Speak your piece vampire. I've no time for games."

Churchman pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and began to clean the space underneath his fingernails. His arrogance and disdain amused Eric. In another circumstance, it might have enraged him, but not tonight. Any other night, and the Were would have been dead on the floor as soon as the words left his mouth.

Eric was wise enough to admit when he needed the assistance of others—most of the time and primarily to himself—and he considered finding his bonded a borderline situation. He needed to work Churchman's fear and ego. He needed his cooperation.

"I suppose that places us at something of an impasse. I have nothing but time." He leaned back in his seat and took on an air of laziness, crossing his arms over his chest.

This grabbed Churchman's attention. He snapped the pocketknife shut with a flourish, put it n his pocket and squirmed a bit in his seat. He was clearly uncomfortable at the prospect of having arrived at an impasse with an immortal creature. What the Were did not realize was that Eric had only just begun to make him uncomfortable.

"My Master is extremely patient," Eric continued. "He would rather a _job_ take a long time and be resolved correctly than to have things rushed and sloppy. You know, 'haste makes waste,' or so they say," Eric jibed.

"They do say that." Churchman replied. His voice was raspy and sharp. His beady eyes were focused on a point slightly below Eric's. His pointed chin protruded from his jaw, which looked tense and determined. In fact, his entire body was rigid and alert. His narrow frame practically hummed with nervous energy. It was in direct contrast to Eric's own cool mannerisms. The surrounding men were picking up on a mixture of the energy. Mostly, they were uneasy.

Up to this point Eric had been relatively tight-lipped about his identity. In his early contacts with the Were, he had informed him that a powerful vampire needed his assistance—in exchange for return of Churchman's funds. He had provided no further detail about Dominic Porto, nor his role in the vampire hierarchy or the search for his "Master's" missing asset.

Cultivating this mysterious identity had, thus far, been the most challenging part of Eric's search. He needed notoriety in order to inspire Churchman's fear and awe. But, he also needed Dominic Porto to be no more than a fear-inspired whisper from the lips of lesser men. He wanted people to say they'd met him, even when they hadn't. He wanted these men to fabricate his existence; to recount tales of Porto's cunning, ruthlessness, and grandiose exploits.

This had not been an easy task. The supernatural universe was both vast and claustrophobic. Any vampire with any power or repute was often well-known to the entire community. Most organized collaborations of supernatural beings could ferret out an imposter with a little effort. However, the number of times their efforts had failed them in recent years was comforting to him. It had been far too easy for a famous vampire like himself to infiltrate Stan Davis's ranks, and far too easy for Charles Twining to infiltrate his own.

The mere memory of Twining's deception and his own failure to discern it made his undead, unmoving blood boil. Acknowledging or admitting failure or vulnerability was not something he did. It was not something any vampire did if he expected to survive for any perceptible period of time. But he had survived. He had survived for many years longer than most vampires. He had won and lost, built and destroyed, conquered and acquiesced.

Now it was time for him to admit his weakness. Sookie Stackhouse. She had been nothing if not a distraction for him. He made several mistakes he would not ordinarily have made as a result of his preoccupation with her. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone else.

But here he was now, again the deceiver. This was a role he had played many times before, and would likely play many times in the future. It was part of who he was.

"Explain yourself, vampire."

"Perhaps," he paused. "Then again . . . perhaps not." Churchman's round face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. He was being handled in front of his subordinates, and he knew it.

"Nigel!" Churchman called over his shoulder.

The thick vampire swaggered toward him from an adjacent room. Everything about the vampire was young and inexperienced. He was clearly turned as a young man and was also young in vampire years. Despite his youth, however, his face was worn—etched with bitterness. His life as a vampire had not been a happy one.

His countenance reminded him a bit of the Were-turned-vampire Jake Purifoy. He recalled that Jake had been a handsome and affable young man until his turning. What many would consider a gift, Jake had considered a burden, if not a curse. It had made him bitter and angry. Though not readily apparent to all—but most were not as observant as the 1,000 + year old vampire who had seen and known many things in his lifetime—Jake had carried the mark of bitterness everywhere he went as a vampire.

Churchman's vampire henchman Nigel was the same. His face was young and full. It lacked any overt signs of aging—wrinkles or discoloration. In a human man, it would have held the lengthy promise of potential of a life not yet lived. In this man turned vampire, it held nothing more than the subtle world-weariness of someone who rued his own lot in life. This Nigel would meet the sun even if he managed to survive his exploits as an errand boy for the weakest species of the supernatural world.

Nigel eyed Eric with trepidation. He could not have known that he stood in a subtle face-off with one of the world's oldest and most powerful vampires. But, like all creatures that thrive based on instinct and fighting prowess, the young vampire could sense when he was face-to-face with a superior being. "Yes, Master."

Eric bristled at the words. It was offensive to him for any vampire to address any Were as "Master." Had the Were survived three centuries and numerous world wars, he still would not have been worthy of the title "Master" as it flowed from a vampire's lips.

"As our _friend_ Mr. Porto has so eloquently informed us, we appear to have reached an impasse." He nodded at Eric with a neutral expression. Eric was not fooled by this lack of emotion. He recognized the nervous stiffness in the Were's attitude. He was scared and putting on a pretty good show to cover it up.

. . . .

This momentary standoff with Churchman and Nigel allowed Eric a moment of repose. A vampire his age was capable of compartmentalizing many different things in his mind. Flashes of his existence, battle plans, strategy, visual images, and words flowed through his head both one at a time and simultaneously while he remained aware of the task at hand. It was an invaluable trait he was certain only the very ancient of his had cultivated.

Even as his blue eyes were fixed on Nigel's hazel ones, he strategized for a moment and then went into a vampire version of autopilot. His senses remained alert and focused; his muscles ready for physical action. He allowed his brain to wander from the room, from the night, from the year and into times past.

The first thing he thought about and the first image he saw in his mind was her. It was clear and refined as always. The particular image that appeared in his mind was a still life version of the last time he had seen her. It was the last time he had touched her. It was the night he had helped set the final plan in motion. It was one of the few times in his vampire life that he'd put aside his own desire and selfishness. It was the night he'd helped her die.

It was near midnight. The near full waxing moon was high in the sky, and its gentle light was illuminating the dashboard of Sookie's aging and battered vehicle. His long legs were cramped in the small space beneath the dashboard and steering column on the driver's side of the vehicle. Sookie was silent and nervous; she was fidgeting incessantly in the passenger's seat. She kept running her hands over her legs, smoothing out her skirt.

"Can't we just get this over with already?" she'd asked. Her head was turned away from Eric, facing out the passenger side window. He could see her cascading golden hair shift slightly with the movements of her head as she spoke.

"Are you so anxious to leave everything behind?" He already knew his version of the obvious answer, but he wanted to hear her response. Sookie seldom said anything in exactly the way he anticipated. It was one of the many things he enjoyed about her company. After more than 1,000 years on this Earth, people seldom entertained him. She and Pam were the exception.

She turned to glare at him. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response." She whipped her head around quickly. She was angry. It was beautiful.

"You just did." He was baiting her to take her mind off of her predicament. He knew that leaving Bon Temps was the last thing she wanted. He knew that faking her own death and starting over as an entirely new person was more than she had bargained for when entering into the supernatural world. He also knew that she was sad, angry, bitter, frightened, and confused.

He did not know how to handle her frail human emotions in any other way than to divert her anger in another direction. He was the nearest lightning rod and was content to do his job.

"Look. I've been through more than you could understand the last few months. I know you're some old Viking vampire and you think you know everything . . . about me and the world . . . but you don't. So, if you don't shut up, I'm getting out of this car and finding a tree branch stake with your name on it, Buddy!" She was seething now. All of her fear had vanished to join the uncertainty in the oppressive Louisiana night air.

"It's time, Sookie." He observed as the clock rotated from 11:59pm to 12:00am.

He heard her sharp intake of breath as she grasped the door handle in her shaky hand. "I don't think I can do this, Eric." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I know you can, dear one." He watched her internal struggle in silence. He knew she would do what she needed to in order to survive. That is what she was, of course. It was the reason he gravitated toward and respected her. She was a survivor, like him, first and foremost. She would do whatever was necessary to preserve her life, and the lives of those for whom she cared.

She had already lost too many loved ones. He knew she was determined not to lose another. He gave her a reassuring nod even though she had no need of it, and watched as she pushed the door open. It was intoxicating to him to watch her set her face with determination and set her feet down on the pavement before slamming the door shut behind her. He wanted to do anything but what he was about to do. Above all, he wanted to take her warm and voluptuous body in his arms and fuck her until her limbs gave out.

She was his. She belonged to him. He should have her, but here he was on the verge of giving her up. He shook his head at this newfound and unfamiliar unselfishness. He could not believe he was about to drive at break-neck speeds on the back roads of a five-stoplight town like Bon Temps for the purpose of demolishing Sookie's car.

But yet, here he was. He couldn't take his mind off her bright blue eyes, wide and alert with apprehension. He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, pushing the car's acceleration to its limits. The old Malibu rattled as he gunned it toward 80 MPH into the oncoming lights of an old car driven by his Child. The car had once belonged to a FotS member with whom Sookie had had many confrontations during her recent nights at the shifter's bar. If he knew his Child, the former owner was un-breathing in the front passenger seat of the car, ready to be moved into place behind the steering wheel before the final crash. She had always been one for dramatic effect.

Sookie was unaware that the FotS member's death had been a part of the plan. They had determined to keep her ignorant of his death because they knew she would not have approved. She loathed having the blood of another on her hands. However, the goal was to close the door on the circumstances of Sookie's death and make her finally safe. The life of the FotS scum was a small price to pay in order to ensure Sookie's safety.

To Sookie's protectors it was believable that a deranged and suicidal FotS member had gone Kamikaze in order to destroy her. She had wreaked so much havoc on his organization and its members. To him, she was a human blood traitor. Yes, it would be a sadly believable story.

He could feel Sookie's apprehension through the bond as the two cars moved within a quarter mile of each other. He could hear the exhaust of the Fellowship cretin's muscle car as it barreled toward him at an even faster pace.

Only five feet left . . . . The cars were at a dangerously close proximity and moving at breakneck speeds. He struggled to quell Sookie's anxiety by sending her constant rushes of contentment and confidence through the bond. The steering wheel shook under his hands. For a brief moment, he lamented the fact that this would be the last time he would sense her or send her feelings through the bond.

He did not have long to lament, however. The oncoming headlights now were nearly blinding. Eric leapt from the driver's side window of the Malibu and floated slowly to the ground. Milliseconds later a deafening crash of metal on metal penetrated the still night air.

Waves of panic and doubt raged through the bond. He immediately stamped it down, sent one final wave of calm and affection, and then said the incantation he had learned and practiced. The bond went silent. He felt nothing. He felt like himself again.

It was necessary that they move quickly and with as little noise and movement as possible. No one was in the vicinity . . . yet . . . but the crash was loud and likely to draw attention to the scene. He looked around for his Child and found her slowly rising on the opposite side of the road.

"Bill. Sookie." He spoke the words as quietly as he could and still have Bill hear him. Bill instantly appeared at his side with Sookie clinging like a monkey to his back. Bill was holding two jugs of gasoline, and Sookie held two cases of True Blood.

He took a TrueBlood from the case closest to him and handed it to Pam. She did not have his ability to fly, and had sustained cuts and bone breakage when she leapt from the Fellowship car. She drank deeply, groaning a bit as the cuts rapidly began to heal.

"Okay. We all know what to do. We must be ready to summon Claudine in five minutes. Niall will open the portal for only a small window of time, and there is much to do." Eric commanded.

The party began moving at vampire speed. Eric removed a knife from the holster on his thigh and made a swift strike at Sookie's arm. She cried out and the pain crossed her face. She shot him a hostile glare. He paid her no mind. He was a frequent recipient of that glare. It now meant little to him. He could see her pain, but he could no longer sense it. His incantation had definitely worked.

"Dear one, you knew this was part of the plan. You must be brave and strong. I will heal you soon." He verbally reassured her and took her hand to lead her in patterns away from the wreckage. He held out her gashed arm so the blood could find its new home on the pavement surrounding the crash.

The scent of her blood stung his nostrils. It was just as intoxicating as ever . . . even more so now that he knew he was losing her. The smell of her blood and the thought of tasting it tugged at him. He felt his manhood stiffen between his legs and the tingle of longing that initiated there as it spread through the rest of his body. He struggled to contain the feeling. There was no time for the kind of lovemaking of which they were capable.

"I can't feel you Eric." Sookie's voice was a low whisper. He could hear the fear and concern in her voice. This was another part of the plan they hadn't discussed. There hadn't been time. Her eyes were questioning. He just looked at her and shook her arm, scattering more drops of blood over the pavement.

"Eric." Her voice was still a low whisper, but her tone was sharp. "Eric, why can't I feel you?"

"The bond is suppressed . . . not entirely severed, but suppressed."

Too many emotions flickered across her face. There was no time to riddle them out. There was no reason to either.

"Why?" She croaked out. It was only one word, but it carried with it the pain and disillusionment that every heartache and betrayal of her last few years had wrought in her young life. He could not look at her. He could not care. The time for caring was over.

He made his voice callous and neutral. "Does it matter? Is this not what you wanted?"

"Eric, why are you doing this? I don't know what I wanted! Why did you do this? Who are you to make this kind of decision?"

"This was not a decision made lightly. It is necessary, and that is enough." The tone in his voice let her know the conversation was closed. She opened her mouth to protest, but wisely snapped it shut without another word. "It's time to heal you and summon Claudine."

Her anger was palpable. She held out her arm and looked away from him. He pulled her arm to his lips and slowly licked her wounds. At the smell and taste of her blood, his mind was carried away. The image was striking in its intensity. Sookie was naked in his arms. Her face was slightly older; aged from worry and life with fine lines forming around the corners of her eyes and her forehead. She was still beautiful, and in this vision, every inch of her was his.

He gripped the soft flesh of her hips in his large strong hands as he slid her up and down while he stood in the middle of an unfamiliar room. He was driving deep into her wetness, and she was moaning and shouting. There was nothing gentle about this encounter. Her large, round breasts were bouncing up and down on her chest, and she moaned even more deeply as he bit into one her taut nipples. She grabbed his hair, pulled his head away, and put her mouth to the soft part of his shoulder.

Without warning or hesitation, she bit with enough force to penetrate his skin and draw blood. As she drew deeply, he was gone. He left his mind, leaving behind the warmth of the room and intoxication of his shuddering orgasm.

He was back to the cool late-winter Louisiana night. The woman in his fantasy was standing in front of him, fully clothed, and a few years younger. Her eyes were closed, and her arms covered with goose bumps. He stopped licking her long enough to regain control over his body and mind that had ceased to be his for a moment. He could hear her light breaths were ragged, and her eyes popped open. She looked him straight in the eyes with a suspicious and frightened look.

Silence and questions hung in the air between them, but there would be no time for answers or certainty. Time was of the essence, and it was time to move on. "We must summon Claudine now, but first you need my blood," Eric whispered. She merely nodded.

_Pop_. The fairy appeared at a distance she considered safe from the vampires and waited to take Sookie in her charge. It was time.

Sookie took a quick drink of Eric's blood to restore the loss of her own. Her eyes and hair shone as brightly as ever, and he could feel an unfamiliar sensation growing somewhere in the caverns of his dead body. It was something akin to the dull ache of loss that he had experienced during his human life.

As she finished her drink, she reached to touch his face. The two shared a meaningful glance, but no words. She turned and ran toward her fairy cousin to depart through the portal to the fae world. She was gone.

He turned back to Bill and Pam, who had already said their own good-byes. They silently went back to work, doctoring the scene of the crash as the flames raged and billowed out of the metal wreckage.

. . . .

As Eric confined his memories of that night to the corner of his mind. His introspection had lasted merely seconds, and the tenor of his standoff with the Were and his bodyguard had not changed. He took advantage of the situation by taking a moment to settle farther back into his uncomfortable metal folding chair.

If vampires could perspire, Nigel would have been dripping. There was no way for him to know the vampire seated in front of him, and he was young for a vampire, but he could sense the danger and superiority that radiated from the vampire that went by the name Dominic Porto. He also surmised that Dominic Porto was not even close to the vampire's real name, and if that were true, he was dealing with someone of a skill level vastly beyond anything he had ever encountered.

"It's not necessary to sic your guard dog on me . . . dog." Eric's voice dripped with disdain. "I'm not here to kill you, or to make a play for your area. I'm not here for anything other than information. I suspect you will be reluctant to give me this information. It is only in that scenario that you need fear me and what I can . . . and will . . . do to you."

"Why should I give you anything? Who are you? I don't know you beyond what my associates have managed to dig up in the supernatural underworld." Churchman's tone was angry. He was not one to hold much back, Eric observed. Nigel shifted slightly closer to Eric in anticipation.

"I do not think you understand. It is my Master, and not me, you are assisting." Eric explained. "My Master is not someone whom you should cross." He was matter-of-fact and expressionless. The Were sneered in reply.

"I have heard whispers of you and your Master, but who is he to me? I have protected status among your kind." Churchman replied. "If you and your Master were half as clever as you believe yourselves to be, well, you would know that already."

A brief flash of anger rolled over Eric. The Were was far more stubborn and arrogant than he had any right to be, in Eric's estimation. He did not expect Churchman to bow to him. He also did not expect the Were to be so foolishly self-assured in the face of threats from a far superior adversary—protected or not.

He allowed his fangs to show and his vampire energy to exude. The air around the congregation practically crackled with energy. He was done playing games.

"My Master operates outside your silly rules and traditions." His voice was ice water over a smoking hot fire poker. "He is many years older than most vampires in existence today. He has skills beyond any vampire I've ever met. And, make no mistake . . . if you should refuse to assist, which it is your right to do, you should also spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder."

The Were's eyes bulged as Eric rose from the chair and crossed the room with his large hand curved into a lethal claw as it grasped Churchman's neck. The movement was faster than even Nigel could follow, as Eric had sprung from his chair and flown with a slight arching flip to land right behind the Were. He yanked Churchman from his chair.

In the blink of a human's eye, Eric had passed the two Were guards that had stood blocking his exit, and was standing with his free hand on the doorknob and the Were's neck still clutched in a stranglehold. Churchman's men once again had drawn their silver swords and guns with silver bullets. It would not matter. Eric knew he was too fast for them, and he knew that he could have Churchman and his three closest men slaughtered and dead before they could get a shot off.

"Do _not_ test me, Were," Eric whispered in Churchman's ear. To press his point, he applied greater pressure to the Were's neck, which was now strained at an unnatural angle.

Churchman shivered involuntarily when Eric's cold breath reached his abnormally warm Were skin. Eric could feel Churchman's pulse accelerate as beads of sweat began to form around the edges of his hairline. The Were was emanating fear like Fangtasia fangbangers emanated cheap perfume.

The room was gripped by a loaded silence. No one was breathing now. Churchman's shivering progressed to shaking as his fear grew. The Were finally understood that the cold undead vampire hand on his neck was actually Death Incarnate. He seemed to finally understand that the vampire before him was dangerous; perhaps the most dangerous creature he'd ever encountered.

"Put your weapons away." Churchman's voice was hoarse from the pressure of Eric's hand against his throat, and a lack of oxygen. He gestured weakly around the room to his various, anxious henchmen. "Let us negotiate."

Eric released the Were. "No negotiation. You give me the information I need . . . I have your funds returned." He folded his long, muscular arms across his chest. He could smell victory as he heard Churchman let out a sigh that was a mixture of relief and resentment.

"What do you need to know?" Churchman practically coughed the words. He clearly thought he had lost the stand-off. Eric thought the Were was short-sighted to not realize what he could have lost.

"I need information about someone. Someone you hid and for whom you created a new identity."

"Impossible."

"Forty-five seconds ago I thought it would be impossible to resist killing you. Yet you still breathe. Clearly, nothing is impossible."

"I never keep personal information about my clients. Anyone who says otherwise misled you. Also, even if I did keep that information, I'd never part with it . . . regardless of the money involved." Churchman was indignant. He knew that Churchman's business would collapse if word got out that he was loose with his clients' information.

Eric need only convince the Were that this would not happen.

. . . .

Eric was not familiar with disappointment. The bitter sting of being deprived of your wants and desires was a distant memory connected with his human life. It was more than a millennium past and difficult for him to remember.

Since he was turned, his ability to feel had become acute—much like a vampire's other senses. He'd found it necessary for survival to control these feelings. By controlling, he meant stifling. There were few emotions he permitted himself to feel. Disappointment, longing, sadness, need, and affection were others.

Still, though the memory was faint, he could remember. Like many memories of his youth—his hubris, and the sunrises and sunsets—he could remember the sensation of disappointment. But that memory was blurred around the edges. It lacked the crispness of his vampire memories. If he were truly honest with himself, he would admit that these memories were nearly faded.

He wasn't certain why he was so resistant to that notion—after all, he had willed himself to forget.

But, there was something. There was something in him that urged him to keep such memories tucked away in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind. It was too much for him to hope that he still possessed a soul, but he believed that certain corners of his mind were sacrosanct. He would protect them and their contents from the world-wearying game of endless survival.

He allowed these memories to ferment in his mind, and take on a life of their own. Unlike the razor-sharp memories he accumulated as a vampire, his human memories were hazy. He did not know whether the turning process dulled a vampire's memories of his own humanity, or if it was the result of the temporary nature of the human mind, but these memories were far less accurate.

In his mind he could picture the sun. It was large, round, bright and white. It was set far away in a distant blue-gray sky. The colors were vibrant, but now unfamiliar. He stared at the moon and imagined that it was the sun. He imagined that he was under it, his bare skin exposed, with the rays soaking to his pores and coruscating throughout.

He drove his borrowed Volvo—simple, black, and non-descript but quick if speed was necessary—on the interstate out of Boston and back toward Bon Temps. If he were capable of such emotions, he would describe his current feeling as one of disappointment . . . almost. He could not say that he was completely disappointed. After all, he had obtained the necessary information from the Were, and he at least had a lead. He was closer to finding her than he had been when he'd arrived in Philadelphia two weeks prior.

It had taken only a few additional threats to convince Churchman to assist him in finding the woman who'd "divested his Master of a small fortune," or at least that was the story he'd contrived with the help of his rival. After Eric's little show of strength, Churchman had softened. Eric was then able to stick with his original plan of regaling the Were with tales of the prior exploits—both dangerous and deadly—and consummate discretion of his own alter ego, Dominic Porto.

It was amazing what a little fear and humility could do for a person—or Were. Churchman's attitude and approach to Eric's request were transformed. The Were treated him like the business associate that he was (though the Were could never know how long they'd been associated). He'd invited the vampire Porto to one of his after-hours dive-bars that catered to the Philadelphia supernatural community. It had been snifters of Remy Martin for Churchman and Royalty Blended for Eric.

After a few drinks the Were began laughing heartily, his cheeks increasingly flushed as the alcohol found its way through his veins. Even Weres were susceptible to the effects of intoxication. It took less than an hour for Churchman to invite Dominic Porto to the back room of his bar—where he conducted his business—and summon one of his henchman for the purpose of retrieving a small piece of paper with a name and telephone number.

It was the name and number of one of Churchman's contacts. He was a man who had doctored some papers for Sookie. The Were was, of course, ignorant about the specifics of his associate's role in creating Sookie's new identity. This was the way of the "cleaning" business—many hands in many pots with little to no knowledge of what the other hands are doing.

All Churchman had been able to tell Eric was that this particular contact was good with record and reference forgeries. He apparently had an expansive network of connections in libraries and universities. Eric's eyebrow had a quirked a notch when Churchman had revealed that information, but the Were just shrugged. "I know, an odd choice of professions . . . seems a little _honorable_ for the types that need forged identities, but what can I say? Gets the job done, and I ain't ever had complaints."

It was this contact name and number that had led Eric to drive from Philadelphia to Boston for the next leg of his search. It was also the Were's off-hand reference to libraries and universities that had led Eric to the place where he had caught the faint trace of his bonded's scent for the first time in over five years.

_TBC . . . ._

_

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A/N_: A great big "Thank You!!" to HopeStreet and Meads for all of their sage wisdom, and assistance with writing this chapter. You two are awesome!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: [_Eric POV_]: Okay, sorry that it took so long to update! I've written the next two chapters, and they're in the editing process so it shouldn't be too long. Anyhow, this chapter gets into my perception of Eric's "head" and "feelings". I hope you all enjoy this peek into his inner-workings and I really appreciate feedback, so feel free to comment!

As always, these characters belong to Charlaine Harris, I'm just glad she lets us play with them. Oh, and thanks for reading!!

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"What do you mean you couldn't find her?"

He held Bill's gaze with his own. "I tracked her to an address in Boston. She was gone by the time I got there. I suspect she left some time ago." He shrugged as if to say "stranger things have happened, and will happen."

"Boston?" Bill asked with incredulousness in his voice.

"I wondered about that too, at first," Eric admitted. "But, it makes a lot of sense if you think about it," he added. Bill waited for the explanation.

"Well, it is exactly what Sookie would do. She would choose a place completely opposite of where anyone would expect her to go. She can be quite clever and resourceful, as I'm certain you remember."

"How strong was her scent?" A vague note of hopeful excitement crept into Bill's voice.

"Calm yourself, Bill. It was very faint." His voice was dry and emotionless. "Besides, you know I will find her. I've only been searching a short while, and it's only a matter of time before I do." He gave the younger vampire a quick wink and knowing smirk.

Bill bristled. "Of course you will." His voice had returned to its typical flat and emotionless cadence.

For a moment, the two vampires remained in motionless silence. Volumes passed between them though neither said a word. Such was the way of vampires. Finally, Eric rose from his seat at Bill's rustic antique dining table.

"Another meeting?" Bill inquired.

"Of course."

The two vampires exchanged curt nods, and Eric moved toward the front door. Bill, ever the Southern gentleman, followed to show him out. As Eric moved to step over the threshold and onto the front porch, Bill placed his hand on Eric's arm. It was a bold and unexpected move. Any other vampire would have ended up headless and slumped over (finally) dead on the creaking wooden floor. Both hesitated a moment. Bill even looked surprised at his own daring.

"Yes?" Eric asked with deliberate slowness.

"I'm glad you did not succeed in finding her."

"I know."

"I hope you never find her."

"I know."

"I believe you should not look for her."

"I know."

"But, you will search anyhow."

"Of course."

Neither vampire had anything more to say. It was nearly the same song and dance repeated at the end of every meeting. Eric made his way down the steps of the porch and eased into his car. After past meetings, he had rarely concerned himself with Bill's thoughts or opinions. They typically meant little to him. This night's colloquy, however, had given him pause. Despite his tendency to view Bill's cautionary rants as little more than a jealous lover's mischief, he was beginning to grow suspicious that something else lay buried beneath them.

Bill was the jealous type. All vampires were jealous types. It was not far beyond the realm of possibility for a vampire to develop an "if not me, than no one" mentality with respect to something they considered their own. Their lives were too long and unique amusement difficult to come by. Consequently, they fervently guarded such things that amused them as precious and irreplaceable. He had long believed Sookie filled this role for Bill. She was so different from the women that vampires encountered on a daily basis. She embodied the best and worst qualities of humans, and the best qualities of the fae. She was a prize, indeed. It did not surprise him that Bill should want her for himself.

Still, there was something different about this encounter, something . . . desperate, if he had to put a name to it. Bill's voice and mannerisms were thick with sincerity. Eric believed they younger vampire cared—to an extent—for Sookie's well being that he clearly felt Eric was compromising. But, this time, Bill had gone so far as to place a hand on Eric. Such a move was extremely risky for Bill, and Bill knew it. Lower-ranking vampires are strictly forbidden from laying a hand on a superior vampire. Though Bill had tried to outright attack Eric before was something entirely different. That was spontaneous and uncalculated rage. To place a hand on Eric's arm in a cautionary manner was something Bill had clearly contemplated.

That Bill had taken such a risk was not surprising to him—Bill was always a bit reckless with him in that way—but it was something else. It was suspicious. For the first time since beginning his quest, he wondered if Bill had already commenced his own search to find Sookie, or had gone behind Eric's back to seek her out on his own.

He doubted that Bill had the capacity to carry out this type of search on his own, but it was a theory that deserved some consideration. It meant certain death for Bill, of course, and he wondered if Bill really would take such a risk to be reunited with her. The idea was unsettling, though not because he worried that Bill had found her. No, the thought was unsettling because he believed that Bill was in love with Sookie.

It was a rare and dangerous thing for a vampire to find love, and especially to find love with a human. For a long time he had not even thought such a thing was possible. Everything associated with "love," or at least as he understood it in the modern context of romance and sexual relations, ran counter to the basis of vampire nature. With no way to die of sickness or natural death, vampires must be removed from the Earth by external forces. Thus, it is in the nature of the vampire to seek to avoid any vulnerability or weakness.

From what he could remember of the cold, blurry, and far away days of his human life, and from what he had observed during his years as a vampire, love was a useless and dangerous concept completely devoid of any practical value. "Love" as the humans called it meant unconditional love and unwavering devotion and fidelity based upon an inexplicable and unpredictable connection.

He had never experienced this modern, or Victorian, conception of "love." Like many of his time, he had married out of necessity. It was how life progressed. He had chosen for his bride a woman whom he held in high regard. She was chosen for her ability to command the household as a stern but fair disciplinarian to his children, and she was chosen for her wisdom and good sense. He wanted to be certain that she would be able to maintain the household in the event of his death. The hard reality of life in those times made it likely that a man could have perished in battle or on a long journey, so the wife must be sensible enough to either run a household on her own or enter into a wise second marriage.

This concept of modern love based on something other than mutual survival was something strange to him. Human lives had grown much friendlier . . . easier almost . . . with more time to create new notions of companionship. He could not understand why humans valued the concept of "sweeping off one's feet" or "taking the breath away" or other such nonsense. To him, these feelings were fleeting, and far less likely to serve as the basis for a successful pairing. There was no reason for anyone to stay together past the point of these feelings.

Yet, he read about such concepts with rabid curiosity—and knew that other vampires of less romantic ages did so as well. Never before, however, had he seen a vampire so completely swept up into the madness of it all. Watching Bill's behavior and obsession with Sookie caused him to wonder about his own.

He did not question his ability to find Sookie, nor his right to do so. What he questioned was whether or not he _should_ do so. It was a nagging question that Pam had planted within him, and it rolled around in the confines of his mind, irritating him. He had lived so long acting only for himself and those vampires most loyal to him, that this concern about how his actions would affect a human was mentally exhausting.

He had returned from Boston over a month prior, but had not seen Bill in that time. He'd spent his time settling some of his own personal affairs. This would be the longest and most challenging leg of his journey. It was quite possible that he might never return to Louisiana, or his current life. It was an exhilarating prospect, and one that had given him little pause. A large part of him was ready to move on from his current existence. He was bored.

Prior to meeting Sookie, this boredom and opportunity for excitement alone would have explained his exhilaration at the idea of leaving his current position behind. Now, he thought there was something more. He had given this a bit of thought in the past. After the blood bond had been formed in Rhodes, he had seriously contemplated whether or not he "loved" Sookie Stackhouse. Of course, he had denied it at the time and pushed the thought out of his head as rapidly as it had entered. He was still intrigued with the prospect and wondered if she had ever loved him. Part of him questioned whether love or the prospect of her loving him was not the reason he felt he must find her.

If he found her, and she was willing, they could become what he felt they were meant to be. They could return to Louisiana and become a better version of what they were. Or, they could begin anew in a distant location. He did not doubt his ability to keep her safe. He was certain that he could cover their tracks and protect her, if necessary.

Still, a faint sense of doubt scratched at his typically solid and unblinking confidence in his own judgment. Pam had first planted this seed of doubt, though he had been quick to write it off. Bill had driven it further home, and he considered that perhaps he was like Bill. As a man of strategy before action, he was not one to make reckless decisions. Yet, Pam's words and Bill's pleas found their way to the forefront of his brain. Had she completely moved on? Was he an unwelcome part of her life, best forgotten? Was she pining for Bill?

The fact that he even concerned himself with such trivial questions filled him with such rage that he nearly ripped the steering wheel from its column. It was no use worrying about things that were, for the moment at least, unknown to him and thus beyond his control. With some effort, he visualized erecting a brick wall barrier where these thoughts of uncertainty were hidden. He would not think of it anymore tonight.

These and more thoughts raced through his brain as his Gran Turismo thundered down Hummingbird Lane, and he hardly glanced to the left as he roared past Sookie's old house. The usual lights were on, and he could see Tray Dawson's car outside. It was startling to think how close they had all come to destruction. If it weren't for that damned Niall, he was certain the outcome would have been different. Different and better. He was certain of it. But he had a millennium of knowing there was no use brooding over things in the past—things that he could not change—though he allowed himself the extravagance every once in a while.

At this moment, he was all too happy to indulge the darker side of his mind by doing just that. He imagined that Niall had never entered Sookie's life. He imagined the fairies had never been given an excuse to involve themselves in the war of the species. He would always blame Niall for that development.

He gripped the smooth leather steering wheel with a little more force than it wanted. He heard it groan under the pressure. He released and again vowed to put thoughts concerning Sookie Stackhouse out of his mind . . . for the time being.

It was time to focus on more pressing concerns. He was on his way to feed before he proceeded to his meeting with the Supernatural Council of Louisiana. It had been a week or two since he had fed, and he was feeling weak. Regaining his strength was his most immediate consideration. The meeting with the Council would be difficult, and he must be persuasive. Any sign of weakness on his part would render his attempt to resign his position in the supernatural hierarchy futile. It also might rouse suspicions—the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself or his whereabouts.

He would need to inform the Council heads of his impending absence from the area. He would also need to nominate a vampire to fill his position in the new hierarchy—at least temporarily. Part of him was grateful for the reprieve. His new position was growing tiresome. Having a pursuit such as this was a blessing to him. The longing to escape from the mundane details of his position in the new hierarchy grew stronger with each passing night.

When the war of the species had ended, the human Congress formed the Supernatural Council of the United States. It had taken nearly a year to assemble and fund this governing body, but it was in place and seemed a successful and powerful method of keeping the supernatural community in check. As a body elected from among the members of the supernatural community, there was an even balance of species; and, of course, a fair share of ruthlessness thrown in with its justice.

As it turned out, Felipe had been viewed favorably by the supernatural community after the war. His decisive decision-making and aggressive approach to the anti-mainstream supernatural rebels had secured his position in the new national hierarchy. Eric's own interest in preserving the mainstreaming structure inured to his benefit. It made him trustworthy in Felipe's eyes. This trust eventually resulted in his appointment to the position of liaison for the Louisiana vampire community.

In this position, he had more power than he had as sheriff, but little time for anything besides work. Much to his irritation, it had required him to give up much of his managerial position at Fangtasia, as it required a large amount of travel to New York, Los Angeles, Seattle, and Washington, DC. Then there was his role in the international community.

After the war of the species, the United States had assumed a leadership role in the integration of supernaturals into the human community. The U.S. had been criticized in the world media, along with other supernatural-friendly nations such as the United Kingdom, Sweden, the Netherlands, and Japan, as a safe-haven for evil creatures and unnatural aberrations. Oh, and the global response to this openness had been even more violent than the reaction to the Great Revelation.

Mending the ideological rifts between nations required a lot of work—and even more travel. The United States had twenty emissaries—human and supernatural—in its employ that were tasked solely with treating and negotiating with world leaders. Eric dealt primarily with Europe and Russia. He had been sent to Asia and then to the Middle East. His trip to China had been low-key and marginally successful. He would have no objection to going back.

His trip to the Middle East, on the other hand, had been a complete disaster. When he'd arrived in Abu Dhabi, he'd been put up in the palatial home of an Arab businessman. While progressive on the surface, the man kept something akin to a traditional harem—complete with concubines in addition to wives. He had been lost in the complex one evening, looking for a way out to the gardens where he understood the man kept a collection of fragrant flowers, arranged in placement so that the scents were complementary. It was apparently something truly beautiful to behold—especially for vampires and their keen sense of smell.

Eric was not one to get unintentionally lost, but this place had been comprised of so many beautiful winding corridors, that he'd allowed himself to wander. After all, he'd had no meeting of any importance to attend. He was bored out of his mind, and the halls were stunningly beautiful. Even a centuries old vampire like himself could admire the perfection of the intricate geometric patterns carved into the archways placed throughout the hall. He could tell that the dwelling itself was not old but the details—everything from the ornate trinkets and collectibles to the gold painted into the intricate frescos—gave the place an old-world feel.

There was something about the art and architecture that had his mind reaching back into the past. It tried to grab onto any memory of his human life he could recall even though he'd never seen this part of the world before. He was lost to his own mind and memories, but he'd smelled her coming before he could see her. He could smell her perfumed oil—light lilac—and her femininity.

At first she had been startled to see something like him wandering the forbidden hallways. He was the first vampire she'd ever laid eyes on—in addition to the first blond haired blue eyed man. This initial fear quickly faded to attraction and mischief. She was a risk-taking and daring young woman. She appreciated his dangerousness and sexual prowess. He appreciated her scent and her enthusiasm.

Unfortunately for them, her keeper was not as appreciative when he discovered Eric and the girl in the darkened bedroom. He was then banned from the city . . . and nearly staked during his extrication. He never found out what became of the girl. It was not his affair.

As it was, Eric's role in this international good will effort was an unusual one for him. He had little patience for intolerant humans—inferior bloodsack meals as they were—but was now too high profile to refuse invitations. His presence was often requested by the American emissaries for purposes of intimidation and strategy.

He rarely conversed with the foreign emissaries for any measurable period of time. Often he nodded at appropriate moments and advised the negotiators as to the most appropriate course of action for a given situation in "behind-the-scenes" settings. He was rarely invited to inter-species dinners or balls. The men considered him a threat, as he was a favorite among the wives. Most of the time, he was amused by his position and his role in the new world. It was the opposite of the life he'd chosen for himself. There was something entertaining about it all. It was funny to watch the anger and fear encase the faces of his diplomatic human enemies. He could tell they wanted to reach for a stake and strike him dead—as if they'd get the chance—and then force themselves to refrain because they were at some black tie function. He would smell their fear and would flash them a wry smile with a bit of fang. The pallor that washed over their frightened faces was amusement enough to last him another three lifetimes.

After a time, his position as liaison grew high profile in both the supernatural and human communities. This was both advantageous and burdensome to him. Part of Eric's millennium of survival had stemmed from his ability to position himself in a way that insulated him from coups and power plays—it usually amounted to a relatively quiet and anonymous existence. Everyone knew of his fighting prowess and cunning, but relatively few had ever actually seen it—at least relatively few that remained living.

In truth, the outing of vampires, as well as his relationship with Sookie Stackhouse, had rendered his approach to existence obsolete. Within the first few months of knowing her, he had been placed in a position of vulnerability. She was within his territory. He had feelings for her. She was a target. He was a target. Together, they had become the supernatural world's biggest bulls eye.

Of course, she was somewhat oblivious to all of this. She thought, as always, that all he wanted was to own and control her. He had once desired no more than those things. But, the beautiful simplicity of that type of relationship was no longer feasible.

The day that her great-grandfather Niall, the damned fairy prince, had contacted him, he knew things would never be the same. He had felt something akin to happiness for his Sookie. She finally had an adult relative to call her own—someone to look after her. He knew this was important to her. If only it could have been anyone but Niall. It seemed impossible to him at the time that anything good could come from opening that connection. Even after, he'd known he was right.

These thoughts had him intensely angry and excited. He was out of his car, and into the Fangtasia office with such speed that two of the waitresses dropped their trays and placed their hands over their hearts. Both made various entreaties to their God as they tried to catch their breaths. He laughed to himself as he flung open the door. His Child was inside, sitting at his old desk, and rifling through a stack of paperwork.

"Care to reprise your former role?" she asked him without looking up. He knew she was joking, but there was a touch of disdain in her voice. Paper-pushing was not Pam's forte.

He snorted in response. "You ask that question as if reprising my role would alleviate you from your current paperwork duties." He sat down on the couch across the office from where she was seated. She looked at him, rolled her eyes, and went back to her work.

"Did you learn anything interesting?"

"Quite." He allowed the word to hang in the air. He would not follow it up with anything. It was fun to play with Pam, and it had been a long time since he'd really had a good play at her patience. Besides, when Sookie had gone, she'd taken much of Pam's ammo with her. He enjoyed turning the tables on his pernicious child.

She nodded, guessing his game. "I assume you're here because you need my help, then? What, did you find out? That she's married and raising a pack of kids? Does she hate you and want you out of her life? Does she even remember who you are?" Pam asked with feigned innocent boredom.

Pam's responses brought a half smile to the corner of his lips. He could not help but be inspired and amused by his child's insightful rant. She knew just how to cut through all of the extraneous, and get right to the quick of what was important. It was one of her gifts, and he flattered himself to think that he helped her develop it. "No use beating around the point then, I suppose. I have no idea whether or not she is married. She could have a thousand children for all I know. I did not find her."

Pam's expression remained impassive, but he was so in tune with her that he could practically hear the wheels turning in her brain. Like him, she had overestimated his tracking prowess and underestimated his human and Were associates—in addition to his bonded's aptitude for survival. "Will you continue to search?"

She was not asking because she legitimately questioned whether or not he would continue to search. She knew he would. It was merely another opportunity to drive home her concerns that Sookie had long since moved on with her inevitably short human life. And that he was no longer a welcome part of it.

"Is that really what you want to ask me, Pam?"

Pam pushed a quick rush of air through her mouth. She did not need to breathe; it was for effect. The vinyl of her corset and tall gloves squeaked together in the relative quiet of the office. It was quieter than it had ever been. He briefly wondered if his Child had soundproofed the office. He would ask her later.

"No."

"I thought not."

She chuckled. "You think you're so smart. You think that she is just going to see you, fall all over you, and love you the way she once could have." She closed her eyes and looked tired for the first time in many years. "But, that's not the important thing." She continued, "The important thing is that a difficult time lies ahead. You're distracted."

"Ah, so you've heard something about what is going on?"

"Of course." She mimicked his tone and cadence, but then returned to her usual serious demeanor. "Those damned fairies." Her lip curled in disgust.

"I'm not entirely certain that this has anything to do with the fairies."

"But, Niall. . . ."

"Was a target of many enemies," he interrupted. It irked him that even vampires perceived fairies as invincible beings. As surely as he, the great Viking vampire warrior, could be swiftly dispatched by the silver sword or sharpened stake of his enemy, so could a fairy prince be felled by the iron sword of his own enemy. Still, the fairy's disappearance was a problem. A big one.

"Any ideas?"

"No." It was the truth. The most obvious answer was fairy enemies. He had read a human book where they quoted a theory called "Occam's Razor" and understood it to mean that the simplest and most obvious solution to any problem was usually the right one. He did not agree. At least, he did not agree with that assessment as it could apply to the supernatural world. Answers to problems in the supernatural world were rarely obvious, and never simple. Niall's disappearance would be no different.

"If you find her, you'll have to tell her, you know."

"I think you mean _when_ I find her, Pam." He was careful not to respond. He had not decided whether or not he would tell Sookie of Niall's disappearance when he found her—even if the fairy prince was still missing. It no longer concerned Sookie, and as far as he was concerned, she was better off.

"Uh huh." Pam had gone back to her paperwork during the discussion, but was now fully focused on him. "Do you think it's odd that Claudine did not inform us of Niall's disappearance when we met with you?"

Eric paused for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. Honesty was usually the best policy when it came to Pam. "Perhaps. Though there is the possibility that he was not officially missing at the time, or that the fairies did not want to publicize his disappearance." Pam looked skeptical. Internally, he agreed.

He stood up from the leather couch, worn and cracked as it had been when he had managed the bar. He stretched to his full height and felt, for the first time, the stiff fabric of his suit against his bare skin. It was manageable, but not preferable. Like everything else about his current life situation, it was stifling. He longed for his fitted, soft, and flexible tee shirts and jeans that Sookie had always found so attractive. It was amazing how well women responded to his simple clothing. He found it flattering. Now, however, he was a working stiff . . . literally . . . in a suit. It did not mesh with his personality. At. All.

"You look tired . . . like you need a snack." She appraised the pallor and drawn quality of his skin.

"Hmph," was all he said. He knew she was right. It had been too long since he had fed. He was hungry, horny, and needed a release. She rolled her eyes at him.

"There are a few acceptable bloodbags hanging around waiting to catch a glimpse of you. Apparently word traveled fast that the ancient Viking vampire turned good will ambassador was back in town. They're all waiting for a piece of you." Pam drawled with a twinge of sarcasm, but he knew she secretly enjoyed it.

_TBC . . . ._


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: _[Sookie POV: Set a few months after the Nevada takeover, and a few months before Sookie leaves Bon Temps. Note that in my story, I have bumped up the timeline a bit. In CH's world, the Were revelation comes in January 2006. In my story it comes in mid-November 2005, or about one month after the Nevada takeover._

_Okay, so due to popular demand, I have chosen to take Sookie's story back in time to explain the reason for her departure from Bon Temps. For clarity's sake, her story will now progress in a fairly linear manner from November 2005. Eric's will continue in a fairly linear manner forward from the time he begins the search with only flashbacks to explain what has happened in his past. I hope you all enjoy the progression. Please, please review! I love reviews . . .they are motivating, which I need right now because I am almost too busy to continue. I keep going because I want to finish, and I don't want to let you all down. _

_As always, the Sookie Stackhouse universe belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm just borrowing and shaking it up a bit. ]_

_Wow, _Sookie though to herself as she pushed the drapes back from the window in her bedroom. _It hasn't been this nice in November since I was a child_. Most of her grass was brown, and the trees in her yard were bare, but the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. It hung low over the winter's horizon and cast a strange orange-ish light over the dead grass. She cracked open the window, allowing a rush of cool air into her room. Everything smelled of nature—aging but fresh and clean. She inhaled, allowing a burst of chill and fragrant air to fill her lungs.

Pulling the window to a quarter of the way shut, she took one last glance out at her yard. It was perfect weather for a day off . . . and it had been such a long time since she'd had any days off. _What to do, what to do?_ She mused playfully to herself as she wondered whether it would be more fun to read a book out in the yard or visit Tara at her shop. Maybe she would even clean up a bit, watch some movies, and then read. _Too many choices—the world is my oyster, baby!_

She practically skipped to the bathroom and cranked the hot water knob with a little more force than was necessary. "Hmmm hmmm hm hmmm hm hm hm . . . ." She hummed her current favorite song as the steam from the hot shower fogged the mirror's surface. Wrapping a towel around her otherwise bare torso, she reached out and rubbed clear a space in the mirror level with her face.

The face that stared back at her looked like her face, but was older than she remembered. It wasn't that the face had aged; her skin was still full, bright, and void of wrinkles. There was just something about her eyes. Although they were still wide, bright and blue as they had always been, there was a depth there that hadn't been there before; what was once sparkling naivety was now a darker maturity and sharpness. She smiled to see if it changed the effect. No such luck.

These slight changes to her face were likely the result of the various crises she had faced over the last few years, supernatural and otherwise. She wondered if anyone else knew her well enough to perceive these changes. _Doubtful_, she mused, comforting herself with the notion that no one besides her would realize that she had changed. She still looked good. She was still voluptuous. Her breasts were still large and perky. Yes to everyone, she would still be the pretty and voluptuous blond barmaid who was strange and scary.

The shower was everything she'd hoped it would be: lengthy, relaxing, and piping hot. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy and the skin on her back was practically a bright red stop sign. It was wonderful. She could only hope the rest of her day would be so pleasing.

Throwing on a ratty old tee shirt and Soffe shorts, she sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that wasn't quite warm enough. She threw it in the microwave and picked up the paper. It had a note taped to the top of the paper written in her roommate's unmistakable penmanship. "Gone to check on Tray. Lots of really bad things going on. Backlash to Were revelation. Turn on news ASAP. Call you later. Amelia"

_Uh oh_, was the only thing her mind could formulate when she saw the newspaper her roommate had laid out on the kitchen table for her. The headline was large, and unmistakably ominous: "Unrest in the Supernatural Community Leads to Violence Throughout the Country." The smaller text read "Authorities Scramble for Answers as Signs Point to Highly Organized Attacks." The newspaper was dated earlier that morning. It was not even the most up-to-date news on the attacks. _Double uh oh_.

Sookie ran into her living room and switched on the old TV, turning it immediately to the local news channel. The first thing to appear was a young woman with big, wavy blond hair, an overly animated and concerned expression, and perfect teeth. As she spoke, a graphic box appeared on the screen next to her head. Sookie looked intently at the screen and turned up the volume. The box next to the woman's head was a map of the United States, with smaller boxes containing maps of other international cities. Each map was covered with dots . . . _and boy, are there a lot of dots_. Sookie thought as she listened for an explanation. A cold shiver traced its way up her spine.

"Today's news spans the country and the world. Late last night and early this morning an unknown group of terrorist individuals launched an attack on supernaturals, businesses owned by supernaturals, and individuals and businesses believed to be friendly to the supernatural cause. The attacks have been described by authorities as 'far-ranging, widespread, and devastating.'

As your local news station, we will do our best to bring you comprehensive and ongoing coverage of the tragedy, and any current developments. Right now, we will switch to our local correspondents on location at several of the locations. The following areas have been affected, and you can tune in during primetime to hear coverage for these areas, beyond Louisiana:

_New York City, New York; Washington DC Metro Area; Greater Chicago Area; Southeast; South; Southwest; San Francisco; _and _ Los Angeles_.

Now, let me send you to our on-scene correspondents, Dusty Langford and Phil Bobinette. You with us Dusty and Phil?"

"I'm here Laura," responded a young brunette with clear skin and sharp brown eyes, "reporting to you from Shreveport in front of the famed vampire bar, Fangtasia, where authorities have reported extensive vandalism and suspected murder." The camera showed a heavily spray-painted building, and dangling Fangtasia sign. _Eric was going to be so very pissed off about this._ Sookie mused before wondering whether Eric himself, or any of his vampire minions had been attacked. A slightly cold sweat broke out over her skin as she thought about this possibility.

"What about Phil? Phil, are you there?" The concerned blond anchor lady arched her eyebrows waiting for a response.

"Oh, I'm here alright Laura." A slightly heavyset man responded. Sookie could tell he was local due to his accent. "I'm reporting to you from far outside of Shreveport at what was once a small hamlet called Hotshot. Here, fires raged through the early morning, and have consumed and terrorized this small community." Sookie sank down onto the sofa and watched with horror as the firemen examined what looked like the charred remains of Calvin Norris's home. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she began worrying at once about everyone she knew.

_Calm down, Stackhouse_, she chided herself. She sat gripping the edge of the couch, scrambling to pull her thoughts together. The TV was still on in the background, and she could hear the new anchor's garbled voice rattling off a list of potentially dead and missing. She worked hard to block it out and try to think what she should do next. _Get ahold of yourself. Something isn't right here. Something just doesn't make sense. All these attacks, and nothing happens to me . . . nothing happens to B-. . . ._

"Oh my God . . . Bill . . .Sam!" She hurled herself off of the couch and in the direction of her back door. The image was clear in her head, as if she were looking at it right in front of her eyes. She just knew that something must have happened to Bill and Sam. If all of these other supernaturals were attacked . . . _Okay_, her mind was working in overdrive, _I'll run over to Bill's place to check on him, and then if everything is okay, I'll call over to Merlotte's to check on Sam, and then if everything is okay there, I'll drive over to my brother's house to find out more about Hotshot . . . _.

"What the . . . ?" She exclaimed as the door swung back on her a bit. In her frantic rush to get out and begin checking on her friends (none of whom had contacted her, to her chagrin), she had not realized that a large package was placed right in the door's path. The package slid a bit from the force of the opening door, but was heavy enough to send the door swinging back on her. "Oof . . ." she breathed as her body absorbed the door's immobility.

Sookie eyed the package dubiously. It was large and rectangular, covered with plain brown paper. It had a card attached to the front. The thought that this package was her part of the attack briefly lingered at the front of her mind. She knew she had few options, and even fewer people she could count on at the moment. For the first time since her gran died, she felt very alone. She could call Claudine, or her great-grandfather, or even Sam, but they might have been attacked. Or, they could be placed in more immediate danger if she did call them.

_No_, she thought, _I'm on my own. I need to do this alone_.

Sookie took a deep breath and reached for the card. The envelope was small and blood red. The color was so rich and bloodlike that Sookie's stomach lurched when she looked at it. She figured a card the color of blood attached to a suspicious package on a day like this was nothing if not a bad omen. Her fingers shook as she tore at the corners of the envelope to open it.

When she pulled the card out of the envelope, she almost laughed . . . almost . . . she was so caught off guard by the friendly and disarming butterflies and flowers patterning the front of the card. There were no words accompanying the pretty design, so she flipped it over with interest. She wasn't sure what she was looking for in the card, but she definitely got something. It took her two readings for the card's message to sink in.

The card itself had one simple phrase on the right hand half of the card. "In Sympathy" was all it said. The neat, fancy handwriting in purple ink that nearly exploded off the page with all its elegance was the real message:

"Dearest Sookie, I suspect you will need a little comfort and sympathy after today's events. Expect a visitor at quarter past three. Do not leave your home, or the consequences will be dire. Bill and your shifter have been spared, though the shifter's bar has not. Fear not. You are not in mortal danger . . . yet . . . but perhaps my little gift will demonstrate to you the precarious nature of your position and how I can be a beneficial asset to you. B"

The B was signed with an arrogant flourish. It had a series of curved lines and dots underneath. It looked like the type of penmanship that would have been taught at fancy schools many hundreds of years ago. She wondered if that was when the author had learned penmanship.

Taking a deep breath, Sookie folded the card back into its envelope and set it on the floor inside her back door. It was time to open the package, for better or worse. She had no idea why, but she believed the note. She believed that there was nothing in the package that would cause her mortal harm . . . yet . . . and if there was something like a bomb, well, she could call someone to help with that. She'd dealt with bombs before. Though she had no desire to do it again, she was not afraid.

With grim determination, she tore at the package, fingers shaking. The paper was not tightly taped, or difficult to tear. It came off rather easily to expose a large black box that looked like the size of an old-fashioned hatbox. Sookie noticed a strange smell emanating from the box. It made her nostrils close in reflex.

"Oh God," she said out loud to herself, "I cannot do this, I cannot do this." She stood up and paced back and forth in her room, wringing her hands.

She knew she had no choice but to open the box. She needed to know. It was not that she wanted to know what was in the box, but she had to. She was compelled by some force or some person that was stronger than her. It was as if the attacks and trauma of the day before had set a string of events in motion, and she was just a spoke on the wheel. She was playing her part. It was foolish and wrong, but she had to know what was in the box.

She leaned over and removed the lid of the box as fast as if she were pulling a bandaid from her skin. She tossed the lid to the side and stared for a moment, gaping, at the inside of the box.

"Oh. My. Oh. My. Oh. My." She began hyperventilating. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted to do a million things other than what she was doing—she needed to get it out of there. She couldn't look at it anymore. But she was transfixed. She was locked in a staring match with the strange lifeless eyes that peered out at her from her brother and Crystal's severed heads. Then, her whole world went black.

When she came to, a strange man was standing over her. He had an odd sort of glow to his skin. It looked fine and papery the way Niall's always looked to her. He was wearing a strange expression, and the skin between his eyebrows was slightly pinched. If she'd been asked to describe it, she would have said that his expression was concerned, and possibly confused. _How long have I been out?_ She wondered to herself.

"Oh, you've been unconscious for some time. I was beginning to grow quite concerned. For a moment, I thought your reputation as a fearsome, part-fae warrior was . . . how should I say it . . . overstated." His voice was low and seemed condescending to her. It seemed to her that looking in on a human, even one that was part-fae, was apparently degrading to him.

"Do not presume to know my mind or my opinion of humans merely because you do not like my expression and countenance." His wide, golden eyes bore into hers. Her head felt uncomfortable, as if it were being stretched and strained. She could feel sensations of probing and poking along the edge of her thoughts as if her thoughts were tightened muscles receiving pinches or a brutal massage. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it out of her head.

"Are you in my head?" she asked, her voice still a bit shaky from stress and exhaustion. "Are you reading _my_ mind?"

"Do not be so surprised or indignant. You sound like a shrill and frightened human. You are not _that_, are you?" His pointed expression matched the haughty, condescending tone of his voice: deriding, but still with a gentle quality around the eyes which belied what she perceived as his cruel nature.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't even know who you are. Did you kill my brother?" She could feel her anger rising. She sat up quickly, and struggled to close her mind. It felt unsettled and confused. While she could not hear this intruder's thoughts she could sense them. They swirled and spiraled around her own, locking down onto them with a vice grip. She closed her eyes tightly and concentrated on clearing out her mind. It was impossible to think of "nothing," but she tried hard to fill her mind with thoughts of emptiness.

It was no good. The pressure of his mind in hers was too much. The dull throbbing of his thoughts against her brain was growing into a steady buzz. It was too loud, too uncomfortable. She began to feel faint again, and swooned a bit as the edges of her vision grew fuzzy. "Get out of my head! I can't concentrate with you buzzing around in there."

He gave her a strange, sad smile. "You hear buzzing when I'm in your mind?"

"Yes." She grimaced as the buzzing intensified. It was no use trying to block him. He was too strong for her.

He let out a long sigh and looked irritated. "You've had no training, then?"

"Training? What is this?! _Who_ do you think you are to show up in my house, reading my mind, and asking these ridiculous questions?" She was practically shouting now, as the buzzing had ceased and her energy was returning. She felt a rush of hatred as she regarded the stranger, who was now sitting quite casually in her living room chair.

The image of his figure, so strange, regal and frightening, leaning back easily against her aged, floral-patterned chair was startling—almost humorous. He was swathed in robes, velvet and ornate. He looked like a wizard or scholar from some fantastical story or movie. His face was undeniably handsome despite its inherent strangeness. It was the type of beauty her great grandfather Niall possessed. It was old, unearthly beauty. Sookie was simultaneously attracted to, and repelled by, this stranger. If only she could know who he was, and whether or not he'd killed her brother . . . .

"I will tell you who I am, and why I'm here. You must promise, however, to answer the questions I demand of you." He was no longer sitting in her chair. He was standing, wandering around and taking in his surroundings. Despite his haughty superiority, he seemed interested in her trinkets and family photographs. His eyes lingered over a silver-framed photograph. Sookie craned her neck to see around his lean figure to better view the subject matter within the frame.

It was a picture of her with her Gran, and Jason. Their faces were all visible to her, staring back at her past the stranger's shoulder. In the unsettling presence of this creature, the faces looked strange and not at all how they would usually look to her. They were distorted—betraying the unflattering aspects of each of their personalities.

In her mind, she knew the picture had been taken during the spring when she, her Gran, Jason, and Tara had gathered to enjoy a barbeque in the warm, fading sunlight. She could see the apron wrapped around her torso, the grill tongues in her brother's hands, and the sweet tea pitcher situated on a checked table cloth in front of Gran. Tara had taken the picture. They were all smiling. Under normal circumstances they all would have looked happy.

Not in the shadow of this being. Where once she had seen happy smiles she now saw deceit, self-doubt, and selfishness in equal measure. Her face, the face of her Gran, and even her brother's face were all dear and close to her. But, in the shadow of this being they looked dishonest and dangerous. It was as if a cloud had passed over the camera, casting a strange light that played havoc with their features. She barely recognized the people in the picture. A cold chill ran up and down her spine. It was a sensation she was reluctantly getting used to.

"Do you keep cookies in the house?" The strange man asked. He was growing stranger to her with every passing second. He asked the question in such a pleasant, innocent manner that it was impossible to resist answering.

"I do." She replied, wondering at the calm nature of her voice. Until that moment it had been shaky, uncertain. Now it was strong and clear as always, as if her voice was unaware of that its body had just seen the severed heads of her brother and his wife.

The two of them, Sookie the human and the strange being, ambled silently into the kitchen. He took a seat in one of her kitchen chairs. He looked easy, comfortable, and as if he'd sat in that chair many times before. He looked like he belonged there, so she didn't protest. Instead, she pulled a tin of homemade molasses cookies from the cupboard, lay three on a plate, and placed them in front of him. He smiled at her. It was subtle and closed-lipped, but it reached his eyes.

Sookie found that this being's presence was intoxicating. Where her great grandfather was beautiful, alluring, and overwhelming, this being was lovely, graceful, and soothing despite his arrogance and disdain for her humanity. He seemed so different to her now that she was awake and moving around him. Before he had seemed harsh and cruel, but now he seemed quiet and gentle. She watched with great curiosity as he bit into the cookie and closed his eyes as he chewed. He savored the flavor of the cookie as if he were a deprived child. It was almost endearing. To her great dismay, she felt her mistrust for this stranger melting away with his every bite into the cookie.

His eyes snapped open and a very serious and dark look crossed his face. "Do not trust me. Never trust me. Never trust any fairy or supernatural being." His voice that had only moments ago lilted with pleasure and welcoming was now harsh and unfriendly. She looked at him doubtfully, still under the influence of his previous peacefulness.

He gripped her hand and pressed his mind into hers. She cried out in pain as he filled her vision with his own. She saw death, torture, destruction, eons of desire and love that was destroyed by greed and jealousy. She saw burning forests and towers and starlit skies. She felt his pain, loss, and desperation. She could not take any more and cried out. "Stop!" The images kept coming. Her hand burned under the intensity of his touch. "Oh God, please . . . make it stop!"

As if coming out of a trance, he stopped, and removed his hand from hers. His eyes were blazing, but she could not decipher the emotions behind them. She would have guessed at sadness and regret, but she was just a human and the things he had seen were beyond her comprehension. She had experienced death, destruction, and brutality. But everything that she had known paled in comparison to the lifetimes of pain he had shown her.

"Now that I have tortured you, and shown you my true and untrustworthy nature, we can proceed. Before I explain why I have come to you, I must know more about you." He took a bite of the second cookie, and a fleeting look of pleasure and happiness flickered across his face. He was quick to smother it this time, and it had no effect on Sookie. She would not let herself slide into that smile again, and kept the images of his brutality at the forefront of her mind. "Good," he said, "you're ready."

"Ready for what?" She asked.

"Ready to answer my questions, and ready to know the true way of the world." He explained. "When I am done, you will be confused and angry. While I understand that anger and confusion have served as your constant companions for much of your existence, this will be a different type of anger and confusion." He paused to take another bite.

This pause allowed her a moment to think about his words. She was a bit taken aback by them. In her opinion, she, like everyone else, had experienced anger and confusion. But, he had said that these emotions were her constant companions. Sookie wondered if she should have been offended by this statement. She put it aside, though, and it occurred to her that it was an unimportant detail. Even though the thought was fleeting, Sookie had the sense that the man was watching her intently throughout. He had finished chewing, and looked like he was ready to continue the conversation.

"I asked you before," he said, "whether or not you have had any training. This question made you angry. Why?"

This question caught her off guard. It was the last thing she'd expected to hear. She was again taken aback. "I wasn't . . . I mean . . . well, not about that," she mumbled, "I mean, I was upset because I thought you killed . . . ." Her voice trailed when she realized that it was no good. She was answering from the surface of herself. He had seen deep into her mind. He seemed to know more about her than she knew about herself, and for some strange reason this didn't really bother her. He was watching her expectantly.

"Okay," she finally continued, "I was upset because I'm tired of my so-called ability." With that piece of information out in the open she felt a bit more bold and free than she had in the moments before that confession. "I mean, the only reason anything ever happens to me is because of this _ability_—the good things and the bad." She was talking quicker, and more excitedly now, as if she'd been waiting for this moment. She'd expressed displeasure at being different before, but never like this. "It's the reason my childhood was so difficult. It's the only reason anyone cares about me now—Bill, Eric, Claudine, Niall, and even Sam a bit, I think. The only reason they are around me is because of my ability or _otherness_. If I were normal . . ."

"If you were _normal_, as you call it," he interrupted dryly, "you would not be _you_." He did not allow her time to sort out his meaning. "It is the same as people being drawn to you because you are humorous, pretty, or smart. Everyone has a trump card. Some peoples' trump cards are more advantageous or unusual than others. By now you may have guessed what mine is."

"Well, you have the same 'trump card' I do, but I think there's more to yours. I just don't know what it is. I don't understand you at all." She suggested more than a little surprised at her own candidness. It was easy to be honest with this stranger. Only, she could not be certain of whether that was a good or a bad thing.

Thinking of her disability or telepathy as a "trump card" or equating it to an inherent quality like a good sense of humor was a concept completely foreign to her. Niall had said something similar . . . he had referred to her disability as something that was part of the very fiber of her being, or something to that effect . . . but it was not the same. This man understood her. He said things in a way that made sense to her. She was a telepath the same way she was a blond. She wondered if there was a way to disguise her telepathy . . . after all, she could always dye her hair . . . . The creature was watching her with an interested expression on his face. It was somewhere between anxious and amused. She understood that he'd heard her ask the question about disguising her telepathy, was amused by the way she'd phrased it, but had not the time to explain it.

"Good." He said finally. "Very good. I do _not _have the same trump card as you, though you're not far off." He was talking quickly now, and appeared to be in a hurry. He strained as if to hear something far off in the distance. His face darkened, and he leaned in close to her before continuing. "I am out of time. They are coming more quickly than I thought they would. We should meet again so I can explain, but I'm afraid they might make that impossible."

"Who are . . . ?" She asked. Her voice reflected the anxiety of his mannerisms. He put a finger over her mouth to silence her. She almost swooned. He gave off so much strange energy, and his scent was so strikingly sweet and potent. He smelled like bushes that grew on the side of a mountain in a land she'd never seen with whispering winds she'd never felt. Everything about him was magic. She knew he was a fairy, but he was so different from Claudine, Claude, and Niall. They were all intoxicating, but he was something else entirely.

"I must finish this." He pressed on, looking like he was going to spring from his chair at any moment. "You are going to need to make a choice. One of the choices will put you face to face with the inevitable. The other will prolong it. I do not have time to explain the choice, or the potential repercussions, but you'll soon understand."

He rose from the chair and was making his way to the rear door. He stepped over the hatbox, but glanced at it with sadness and regret. She had suspected he had killed Jason and Crystal, but now it was confirmed to her. She wanted to be angry, and in fact she was angry, but she could not find it within herself to be angry at him. It was as if she knew he had not wanted to kill them. He had wanted to help them, but like everything else he was trying to accomplish, it had gone badly wrong.

He had his hand on the doorknob, and turned to look at her. He looked so old in that moment, and frightened. "As with all choices, I cannot tell you which way to choose, but . . . well, I've always believed that the tallest ladders and longest roads lead us to the highest places. I can guarantee you three months, but no longer." With that, he was out the back door and streaking across her lawn. She watched him as he disappeared into the trees. A strange sensation of relief and apprehension washed over her. For the life of her she could not figure out what that meant.

_Pop!_ Claudine appeared next to her at the door. "Hiya Sookie!" She exclaimed brightly, but Sookie could tell it was forced. Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed Claudine staring at the hatbox, and then at the woods. She watched as Claudine's nostrils flared, as if silently sorting through the different scents that were filling Sookie's home. A deep frown appeared at the corners of Claudine's mouth.

"I think I need to take you to see Niall," she said.

Sookie sighed. If she could believe the strange, nameless fairy that had visited her, she believed her "choice" was closer than she could have imagined. She leaned over and replaced the top of the hatbox, and could not help but wonder whether she too would meet her end by the blade of a knife. Something told her that Jason had been given a choice, and chosen wrong. She wondered, _what if I choose wrong, too?_"

_TBC . . . ._


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: [Sookie POV: So, I was torn about whether to pick up with Eric's story, or Sookie's story. I'm completely infatuated with the backstory on Sookie right now . . . but then, this is an Eric story . . . so, it was a toss up. Anyhow, the Sookie version has been whispering in the back of my mind, and I think that means I should go with it. Anyhow, please read, review, and of course, enjoy! As always, much thanks to my Beta Hope Street who helped me spruce up this chapter. And, thanks CH for writing such fun characters in such an entertaining world! The rights are all hers . . . ]

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"I think I need to take you to see Niall," she said.

Sookie sighed. If she could believe the strange, nameless fairy that had visited her, she believed her "choice" was closer than she could have imagined. She leaned over and replaced the top of the hatbox and could not help but wonder whether she too would meet her end by the blade of a knife. Something told her that Jason had been given a choice and chosen wrong. She wondered, _"What_ _if I choose wrong, too?_"

"You know, I think you're right. Maybe I should see Niall," Sookie agreed after a moment's hesitation. It seemed like the right thing to do. The day's events were a fairy issue, and Niall was a fairy prince. _It's the logical thing to do, right?_ she wondered to herself.

Still, as soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. Presently, Claudine glided over to her, concern draped over her abnormally beautiful and dark features. A moment later, she was swallowed up by all of the fairy's curves in a large bear hug. She felt like a little piglet in a warm fairy blanket. Claudine's energy was so soothing. It was hard to be upset around her.

When Claudine finally pulled away, she said, "Are you okay to wait here? I need to step outside and make some phone calls."

Sookie raised her eyebrows at Claudine, wondering why these phone calls had to be made outside her presence. In the end, of course, she just nodded and let Claudine go about her business. She was used to being left in the dark, or receiving only less than a quarter of any necessary information. _Damn fairies and supernatural creatures_, she complained to herself as Claudine deftly stepped over the hatbox and out the back door.

Whatever phone calls Claudine needed to make were very quick. She was back before Sookie really had any time to think about what she was supposed to be doing to prepare for her visit with Niall. _Well, there's no use worrying about being productive now_, she thought. In reality, it was a stupid, human worry. She had just lost her brother and been warned . . . _or threatened_ . . . by a very frightening supernatural creature. Being proactive was the least of her concerns.

"Do you really think Niall will know why this all happened?" She made a sweeping gesture around the entryway. It was clear what "this all" meant.

Claudine tried to look bright and helpful, but her expression was a bit off the mark. "If anyone will know, it's Niall," she said. Sookie wasn't convinced this statement was really an answer, but she was just too darn tired to press. It was no use anyhow. She would see Niall in a little while, and she would know then whether or not he could answer her questions.

Sookie sighed . . . _again_. It seemed to her that she had sighed an awful lot over the past few years. "Okay, I'll drive," she said, and the corner of her mouth quirked up in a half-smile.

In return, Claudine flashed Sookie the bright smile she liked so much. Her fairy cousin seemed as confused as Sookie about the whole situation, but was doing her best to act nonchalant. There were wings at stake for her, of course. "I'm going to take this box with us. Maybe you should wait outside while I gather it up, okay?"

Sookie shook her head. In a way, she was sort of numb to it all. It was a false and temporary sort of numb—maybe it was shock or the after effects of her interaction with the strange fairy—but it was still numb, and it felt good. At least, it was better than what she could have been feeling—shock, rage, sorrow, or a combination of all of them—for what was in that box.

Maybe it made her a masochist, but she stole a glance at the box. Her stomach lurched when she thought about the severed heads of her own flesh and blood and his pregnant wife. She forced the bile down and, with her head held high in proud defiance lest anyone was watching from the trees, led Claudine out to her car. She was determined to stay strong—or at least appear that way.

Once behind the wheel of her car, Sookie's mind started working again. "Where are we going, Claudine?" They had pulled out of her driveway and onto Hummingbird Lane. Claudine had not given her any instructions. The fairy's expression was distant, preoccupied.

"We're going to my house," she replied brightly. "I think it will probably be safer there, although it seems like there are few truly safe places left in the worlds—yours or mine." There was some bitterness tucked into her words, well hidden behind her light tone and reassuring smile.

Sookie had no idea what Claudine meant, but it sounded bad. Actually, it sounded very bad. She couldn't help but have the feeling that the violence of all the worlds—vampire, Were, and fairy—had overflowed into her backyard. She gave Claudine a sideways glance. "I don't know where you live Claudine. How do I get there?"

"Oh!" Claudine exclaimed, "I'm so scatterbrained today. It's about halfway between Bon Temps and Shreveport. Just head toward Shreveport, and I'll direct you from there."

The car ride was quiet and uneventful. Both women were lost in thought, and for once had little to say to the other. There was no chatter or small talk. Some part of Sookie knew this should have concerned her. The Claudine she knew was lively and talkative, even in the face of life-threatening danger. Presently, the ability to care about such things escaped Sookie. She had too many things to think about. Plus, she was feeling a little strange and a lot light-headed.

Sookie stared out ahead of her at what looked like an endless highway of asphalt and yellow lines. Maybe she was being overly sentimental, but this view struck a chord in her. She watched the black asphalt and yellow lines roll toward her in never-ending succession. It felt much like the never-ending string of drama and tragedy in her life. _Okay, so maybe that's a little dramatic, _Sookie admitted to herself.

Still, a part of her was feeling mighty indulgent. Who wouldn't? There was the fact that her brother and his pregnant wife were dead—recently and finally dead. And, she had stared into their lifeless eyes. It was a sight that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Sookie was practical, though. She knew she could not think about her dead relatives if she wanted to keep it together and not break down behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. In order to survive, she needed to stay sharp and logical. Most important, she needed to stay receptive to the wisdom of others because she needed answers more than anything. If only she knew whether or not she was asking herself the right questions . . . .

_Who is attacking the supernatural community? Is this mysterious "B" a part of the attacks? I thought he was a fairy, so why would he attack the supernatural community?_ She asked herself. None of it made sense, really. She hoped that Niall had the answers. If not, she would need to find a way to get back in touch with the enigmatic visitor. She imagined facing him, standing before him. Her stomach turned over at that the very thought of seeing _him_ again, and her pulse began to race.

She was terrified of him, and in all likelihood he was going to kill her. So, why did she feel _eager_ to see him again? It was what she was, after all . . . eager. The prospect of turning to him for answers, of understanding his actions and motivations, was thrilling. She imagined herself talking to him, standing in his unsettling presence. Her breath quickened, and a thin sheen of sweat developed around her hairline. _What the Hell is wrong with me?_ She chided herself, knowing that she should have been terrified, rather than excited, to see this being again.

"Sookie?" Claudine asked. Out of the corner of her eye, Sookie could see Claudine turned slightly in her seat to face her. The fairy was watching Sookie intently. The shadows cast by the waning sunlight intensified the lines on Claudine's face, which was a mixture of curiosity, shock, and fear.

"What?" Sookie asked, sounding a bit exasperated. Claudine just sat there staring at her as if she was a ghost, and Sookie found this irritating.

"What were you thinking, Sookie?"

"Why?" Sookie asked a little defensively. Why should Claudine care what she was thinking? Well, she was sweating a bit, and she had been gripping the steering wheel with a little more force than was necessary. Okay, and maybe, just maybe, she'd swerved a couple of times because she was lost in her own thoughts, but . . . .

"You were talking to yourself, I think," Claudine continued. Those words hit Sookie with the force of an anvil. She did a mental double-take, and struggled to focus her energy and consciousness on the road in front of her.

"I was _what?!_" Sookie had not meant to sound shrill; she wanted to sound calm and unbelieving. Her efforts failed. Her voice betrayed her. She was terrified by the idea of explaining to Claudine the mental conversation in which she'd just engaged, and even more terrified to reveal the feelings of excitement and anticipation the prospect of this conversation stirred within her.

"You were sort of . . . talking," Claudine said slowly. "I was watching you. You were focused on the road in front of you, but it was like you were somewhere else. You were smiling and talking. You seemed happy at first, but then . . . well, you were sharp . . . and then you seemed very upset. It was like you were arguing with yourself." The fairy's voice was soft and lyrical. It softened the blow.

Sookie shifted uneasily in her seat but didn't speak. She felt like a petty thief who'd been caught stealing from her best friend. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Sookie concentrated all of her energy on the road ahead. It was all she could do to avoid looking at Claudine's face.

"Turn here," she heard Claudine say from beside her.

Their journey progressed down a very, very long white gravel driveway. The ride was smooth, and the edges were neat. This long driveway was well maintained and possessed none of the abrupt drops and ridges that were characteristic of her own driveway. In spite of everything, Sookie felt a twinge of excitement at the prospect of seeing Claudine's home. She wondered if the house would be like her fairy cousin—a wealth of contradictions. Claudine was far too experimental and wild to possess a dull home.

As the car crunched up the gravel driveway, the large outline of a house seemed to materialize out of the thick, darkening woods. The façade of the house was a little more conventional than Sookie had anticipated, with a dark brick front and white carved wood over the doorways and windows, and large white columns lining the front. It was elegant, though, with beds of delicate-looking flowers lining the brick front porch. Sookie noticed that the small flowers seemed to dance and sway in the beds, despite the absence of any noticeable breeze.

As they approached the house, the driveway ended in a circular formation and wound around a copper fountain set in a brick base. Sookie squinted to get a better look at the figures atop the fountain. She almost burst out laughing. The two figures were—of course—fairies, a male holding a bow and arrow, and the other a female holding an ornate vase that was dispensing the clear, gurgling water.

"What the . . . ?" As she began to turn to face the road in front of her, a movement caught Sookie's attention out of the corner of her eye. She blinked to see if her eyes were playing tricks on her. They were not. She was certain that the fairies had moved their heads to look at her car, and then turn back to face each other. She wagered another quick glance over her shoulder as she drove on, but the figures were now stationary.

"Hey! Watch the road, Sooks . . . ." Claudine exclaimed. Sookie jerked the wheel to the right as she realized she was headed straight for the brick base of the large fountain. She let out a sigh of relief as she restored the car to its proper place on the circular part of the driveway headed for the house.

"You can just stop at the top of the circle. We don't need to go around back, I don't think. Niall should be waiting for us in the front hallway. He is anxious to see you." Claudine said. She gave Sookie a sideways glance. Sookie gave her smile that was nervous but genuine. "Okay, let's go, kid!" The two women hopped out of the car, shut the creaky doors, and entered into the grand hall where Niall stood waiting to greet them in all his strange and scary beauty.

"Grand-daughter," Niall spoke first and placed two large, soft hands on either side of Sookie's face. His light lips grazed her forehead. She felt as if a cool breeze lingered anywhere Niall's touch had been—it was a dull but pleasant tingle. She had forgotten how paper-like his skin always felt. Sookie felt lighter and less troubled, though she could still feel concerns and worries prickling at the hidden places of her mind.

"I understand you've had a visitor and an otherwise traumatic day," her great grand-father began, leading the party into a lavish sitting room. Sookie had found the exterior of Claudine's mansion a bit disappointing, but the interior nearly knocked her over. It was everything she had hoped for, and then some.

The room they were in was large, spacious, and exotic. Atop each decorative table stood a carved vase filled with exotic and unfamiliar flowers. The fragrance was strong and intoxicating; a mixture of sweet and dewy. Sookie could hear the faint trickle of a fountain from somewhere that must have been in the depths of the house. The walls were painted a soft yellow, trimmed with white wood molding, and capped with a domed ceiling.

The dome itself was smoky white glass and the area bordering the dome was painted in the fashion of a Roman fresco. It was detailed and grandiose, and appeared to depict some unknown land populated with strange beings. The beings were separated into three lines, each holding out their hands to a large winged figure seated on a throne. Sookie stared harder at the painting, trying to make out the details.

When she looked closer, she could see that all of the beings were winged with pointed ears. The wings were of varying size and color, as were the beings. Some were lovely, with perfect features and fine robes. Others were frightening with distinctive and distorted features. All appeared to be participating in some ritual and were bowing down with their arms extended in the direction of the enthroned figure Sookie thought looked something like a king in a fairy tale book. He was larger than all the others with great iridescent opal wings that seemed illuminated.

The domed ceiling was only one of the room's opulent attributes. The furniture on which they sat was some rich material Sookie could not identify. It was soft and elegant beyond anything she had ever seen. In truth, she was a little nervous to sit on it and sat gingerly on the edge of the furniture trying to have as little contact with the fancy material as possible.

Once seated, she stole a glance at the next room, at the far end of which sat some sort of dais with another fairy statue, and on either side of the dais stood two decorative urns. Each urn sat on the floor and was nearly as high as Sookie's waist. Although she was too far away to make out the decorations, she noticed that each urn was filled with the same exotic and unnamable flowers that filled the room with a sweet foreign fragrance. Sookie peered around at the art and gilded mirrors adorning the walls, and naked statuary throughout the room. Each time her eye left a spot in the room, she sensed movement, but was never quick enough to catch it.

"Ahem," she heard Niall clear his throat as he took a seat in one of the gilded edged chairs. Sookie snapped back to the present—which included Niall's question. She tried to gather her concentration. _Answers Sookie Stackhouse,_ she thought, _you need answers_.

"Yes. Jason and his wife were beheaded." Sookie said. Her voice was surprisingly steady, and her mind alert and clear. Claudine handed the hatbox and card to Niall. He did not open the box—there was no need—but he did open the card. Sookie watched his face intently, waiting for a sign of recognition or understanding.

She was not disappointed. Niall appeared to read it twice. The first time he looked somewhat irritated. The second time through, his face filled with a cold and deadly fury. His head snapped up, and his eyes met Sookie's. "You have been in proximity to the author of this note?"

"I think so," Sookie answered carefully. She thought it was probably true that the strange visitor was the note's author. It was a logical assumption, and it felt right. But, even as she said it, she felt doubt. It was a heavy, floating doubt that settled over her brain like a fog. She rubbed at her temple. "I mean, he never said who he was. He was just strange and scary."

Niall looked skeptical. "What did he look like?"

Sookie opened her mouth as if to speak, but shut it when she found that she could not reply. Stretching the boundaries of her memory, she tried desperately to recall his facial features and physical attributes. She could sense the memory on her periphery, but it got lost somewhere before she could call it to the front of her mind. She concentrated harder. Nothing.

"Hang on a sec . . . I can't remember . . . ." She closed her eyes and again tried to reach into the depths of her mind. The harder she concentrated, the less she could recall. She tried to empty her mind, let go of her desire to picture him. Something lingered on the edge of her memory. It was an outline in dark gray—imposing and foreboding—but that was all. Sookie struggled against her mixed feelings of frustration and relief. She wanted to recall the details of this figure, but could only see a gray outline. She exhaled a quick, frustrated breath, "He was a shadow," was all she could say.

"A shadow?" Niall inquired with interest. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

She thought for a moment before responding. The stranger hadn't really been a shadow. He had been a solid figure—a man—she could recall that much. She could even recall that he had cast a shadow over her family photographs, distorting them with his darkness. Really, it was just that he had the quality of a shadow. Everything about her memory of him was nondescript. She told Niall as much.

"Do you remember _anything_ specific about him?" he pressed.

"Well, I can remember a few things about what he did or said, but I can't really remember anything about him." Niall nodded at her in encouragement, his long blond hair brushing back and forth across his shoulders. "He could read my mind," she continued. She kept her voice blunt and emotionless. "He pushed against the barriers of my brain. I could feel him moving around in there. I hated him for it. Everything about him made me sick when he was first there. Then he walked past my family photographs, and they looked strange . . . wrong." She hesitated. She was at a loss for how to explain it better. Everything just felt _off_.

Earlier, Sookie had wanted desperately to explain to Niall everything that had happened at the house. Now she felt differently. The longer she sat in the seat across from him, the less she wanted to tell him anything. In the strange light from the nearby floor lamps, Niall looked just as frightening and untrustworthy as the strange visitor. This reminded her of something he had said to her. "He told me not to trust him. He told me not to trust any supernatural being."

A look of surprise and then anger passed across Niall's face. In his anger, he was twice as beautiful and three times as frightening. Sookie realized there was something very savage and inhuman concealed beneath his pleasant surface; she felt compelled to go on, if only to tell him something that would chase the dark clouds away from his face. "That wasn't all," she rushed on. "He told me that he'd run out of time, that there was more to tell me, but that he was afraid '_they'_ would make it impossible for me to see him again."

"_They_?" he asked. Sookie just nodded. "Was that everything he said?" he asked, sitting back in his chair now. This was a marked change from his previous demeanor. Where he had been leaning forward in his chair, radiating energy and anticipation, he was now hunched over and drawn in on himself. He looked defeated.

"No," Sookie replied and then hesitated and stared at her hands which were folded in her lap. An odd feeling of warning, or perhaps distrust, crept over her. She was suddenly uneasy and felt exposed, as if she was surrounded by strangers. It made no sense, of course. She was with her own flesh and blood; she was sitting across from the woman—er, fairy—who had saved her life and tried to protect her so many times. It was absurd, but there it was. She was afraid.

A moment passed that felt like an hour. She knew they were both watching her, trying to interpret her reticence. Awkwardness hung in the air between them, heavy and lifeless. Sookie then felt compelled to speak. The silence was too much to bear. Surely, it would be better to tell Claudine and Niall what the strange man had said.

"It's really hard to remember, but he said something strange. He told me that I would need to make a choice." She concentrated harder, closing her eyes. Even as she said them, the words were escaping her, and she could not remember what she wanted to say. "I don't know why it's so hard to remember!" She exclaimed in frustration, closing her hand into a tight fist.

"Fae magic is why it's hard to remember," said Niall. There was bitterness in his voice. If Sookie hadn't known better, she would have thought she'd heard admiration buried in there, too. Everything about her great grandfather was complex and layered. She remembered the conversation she'd had with Sam following Niall's visit. The exact words she'd uttered escaped her, but she remembered telling her old friend that she wanted to love her great grandfather. She wanted him to be a part of her family, but he was so frightening, so entirely _other_.

"What kind of magic?" she asked. The last thing Sookie wanted to hear was that she had some spell or magic in her system. As if there wasn't enough to cope with—the attacks, her dead brother and his family—now she had to worry about residual fae magic?

"It's old magic, Sookie, natural magic." He explained. "What he can do with minds is a more powerful manifestation of the same magic that fuels your ability."

"So, he's like . . . telepath-plus?" Sookie asked, half-serious, half-joking. This comment elicited a short chuckle from Claudine and a sharp look from Niall. "Okay, so he's sort of like me, but not really. And, whatever he does seems to affect memory and perception. So, he's dangerous. I get all of that. What I don't understand is _who is he _and why _me_? Why did he come to me? Why did he kill Jason and Crystal?" Questions were flowing in place of tears. "Why do I have to make a choice? What kind of choice will it be? Can you answer these things great grand-father?"

Niall stood slowly and turned in such a way that his back faced both Sookie and Claudine. He examined the fresco lining the base of the domed ceiling. He appeared to be choosing his words and tone carefully. "There are so many things you do not know and cannot hope to understand about the fae world and supernatural community. So much . . . ." His voice trailed off. "It's not really fair that you are caught in the crossfire of ancient disputes you cannot hope to understand. Yet, here you sit, telling me about choices you will need to make in order to cope with things you cannot understand . . . to cope with losses you do not deserve."

Sookie felt like she was floating around the room, watching herself and Niall. This was such an unreal experience. She felt like Obe Wan receiving a lecture from the elusive Yoda. Niall had artfully dodged each and every one of her questions, and had even managed to give her a bigger headache. Suddenly, as if she'd been struck by a bolt of summer lightning, she knew she had made a mistake coming to see him.

Before she could say as much, Niall continued, "But, you must make a choice. You must choose what is right for you. Can you recall anything else? Did he say anything else about this choice? Did he tell you when you must make it? What circumstances?"

Anger welled up in Sookie's chest. She had no desire to answer this question or any more of his questions. Why should she when he hadn't answered any of hers? She hoped, sighed, and decided to try one more time. "He said something about one choice bringing me closer to the inevitable, and the second choice postponing it. Then he said something about high ladders and roads. Oh, and he said he could guarantee me no longer than three months, but he didn't explain that. At. All. Honestly, that's all I can remember."

Claudine and Niall exchanged a troubled glance. "Sookie, I'm afraid your choice will not be a pleasant one. If I'm correct, it will involve an ancient battle between fae factions. The unrest in the revealed supernatural community will provide these factions a battleground where fairies can hide their brutality behind their revealed compatriots. Our race now has a stake in the outcome of these events," Niall lamented.

"But what do I have to do with that?" She asked, her voice wavering a bit. She was getting tired, and she was beyond tired of the double-talk and cryptic responses. She wanted real explanations. "I mean, I'm hardly fae at all!" She wasn't whining—not really—though the volume and pitch of her voice were creeping toward the high "C."

Niall made a face as if the sound had pained him. It probably had. "I know," he softly insisted, "but none of us choose our place in this world. Not even I, Sookie."

"If you won't tell me who he is, can you at least tell me what this choice is that _I _must make?" she pushed.

"I suspect you will need to choose sides," he responded. His voice was now direct and matter-of-fact. It had lost its previous softness—its sympathy—it was cold, institutional.

"Sides?" she squeaked. "If this is about the supernatural struggles, then I think I've already . . ." she began, but he did not permit her to finish.

"Supernatural problems have just begun to affect the human world in a visible way. You will learn a great many things in the months to come. I will not yet attempt to influence your decision. It would be better if you consulted your vampire. He has, perhaps, less to gain and more to lose than I do. That is a safe and less biased position." He paused, considering, before continuing, "Yes, I think you should do that."

Before Sookie could press him for further explanation, he turned to Claudine and said something in an unfamiliar language. Once Claudine finished her response, he disappeared.

"And just when things were starting to get interesting . . . ." she said acidly, half aloud and half to herself. Claudine gave her a look that was equal parts warning and sympathy.

"You go to Eric now," she said.

"Oh, is that the '_your vampire'_ he was referring to?" Sookie seethed. All bets were off. She was no longer making any attempt to conceal her irritation with the lack of answers and the cryptic-minded fairy race in general.

"Hey! Take it out on someone else. Not my fault!" Claudine snapped back.

Sookie opened her mouth to whip out a snarky retort, but popped it closed just as quickly. Claudine was right. This whole thing was far from her fault, and she had always tried to help Sookie. "I know. I'm sorry Claudine. I don't mean to take this out on you."

"I know, Sooks. You're going through a really hard time. I'm sorry about your brother and his awful wife, and I'm sorry that you have to go through all of this . . . as if you hadn't been through enough already." Claudine's face was filled with sympathy. "Oh, before I forget—big, blond, and dead is waiting for you at your house, so, you should probably scoot."

"_How_ in the . . . ?" Sookie asked, hoping that she could get an answer to this simple question. Hey, it would improve her record, at least . . . .

"I left him a message when I stepped outside to call Niall . . . you know, at your house!" She responded brightly with a bit of mischief glimmering in her eyes.

Sookie just stared.

"Scoot!"

_TBC _. . . .


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: [_SPOV: So, as I said in the earlier chapter, Sookie's story was just lingering in the back of my head everyday as I was going through my mainstreaming routine of work and volunteer activities. I would patiently wait for the time to come home and work on it. _

_Again, I apologize that it takes me so long to update. I really, really wish that I had more time to write this because I really do love anything E/S, and writing this story has been so much fun. I'm also half tempted to apologize to those who don't like my writing style and perhaps think it's too circuitous. I realize that there are a lot of unanswered questions, but I'm kinda the "take the long path and smell the roses" type of gal. So is my writing. The stuff I write in real life is so direct and rigid that I like to play with layering and subtleties in my personal writing. Sorry if it isn't working in the context of this story, but what can I say . . . it's an experiment. Anyhow, thanks again to HopeStreet who helps fix the mistakes I make when I'm struggling to write as my eyes are fluttering closed . . . Oh, and thanks again to CH.]_

**NOTE**: **SOME MIGHT CONSIDER THIS CHAPTER "M" for lemons (rather than the "T" rating I'd given my story). **

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If she had to guess, Sookie would have wagered she'd been sitting outside her home in her car staring at Eric's cherry red Corvette for no less than ten minutes. She was sure he knew she was there, sitting, with both hands on top of the steering wheel and her bent head resting on them peering out the driver's side window. It was a testament to his patience—and pragmatism—that he had not yet disturbed her.

The longer she sat with her head bowed and spirits steadily sinking, the closer she came to actual tears. She'd held it together for so long out of necessity. Now she was alone and about to see Eric. This last part made it worse, of course. She'd seen neither hide nor hair of him since he and Pam had shown up in Merlotte's to inform her of her protected status.

In truth, she'd been avoiding him. There was too much, and yet, nothing to say. He remembered their time together; she sometimes wished she could forget it. Then again, she often wished she could repeat it. What could they possibly say about it, though? Sookie had no trouble thinking of things they could do about it, though she was trying not to go back down that road. A brief image of their shower together flashed through her mind and sent a tingle through her body. It was the first positive shivering sensation she'd had in a long time. Apparently Eric felt it too. She was suddenly feeling very anxious . . . and not in the frightened, nervous kind of way. _Uh oh_, she thought.

Letting out a long sigh and resigning to the inevitability that was dealing with Eric, she left the solitude of her car and headed toward her house. Had she not known a 1,000 year old deadly vampire was standing in her house watching her, she would have felt extremely exposed. The woods behind her home, which she normally found so beautiful, seemed very dark, silent and mysterious, as if cloaking something from her. It was eerie and unsettling, and she felt very exposed. If this were any other night, she would have charged at full speed to her door. As it was, she was determined to look dignified.

So, of course, she failed. When she reached the top of her porch, she turned to face the woods. She allowed her brain to reach out in search of others, but felt nothing. She was concentrating so intently and was so convinced that she felt a presence in the woods that she failed to notice Eric had moved silently to her side.

"Sookie," he whispered so low that it was barely louder than a quiet exhalation of breath.

"Gah!" she half-exclaimed half-breathed before he clamped a hand down over her mouth. She had literally frozen stiff. Her heart was thundering in her chest at speeds she was sure would be considered abnormally and dangerously fast. She briefly contemplated going to the doctor to make sure that her blood pressure was normal. All of the stress could not be good for her cardiovascular system.

"Shhhh" he whispered. He flicked a quick glance at her face, and then turned his gaze back on the woods. He stared with an intensity even Medusa would have envied. "Something's out there. I believe it has been out there the entire time I've been here, but better hidden. Your arrival seems to have drawn it out, and it's being surprisingly careless considering my presence." Eric eyed her with a look that said, "You seem to have this effect on supernatural creatures." He was making fun of her, of course. Only Eric could have turned this situation into an opportunity to get under her skin.

Of course, it worked. She tried to talk from behind his hand, but he clamped the cool, firm flesh tighter against it. He pulled her a little closer to him in a defensive position. It was not really necessary, but then, she wasn't going to complain . . . couldn't really complain.

After another moment of silence he released her. "This is not the worst day I've seen, but it's the worst for our kind in a great many years." He paused, looked into her eyes, and pushed a stray lock of hair back from her face. She attempted to stave off a tremor. Somehow, everywhere Eric touched seemed to be connected to a nerve running from her skin to her . . . well, you get the idea. One touch and her entire body was in flames. Sookie blamed the blood bond.

He stared down at her for a moment. His sapphire eyes smoldered and glittered. The tension in the air between them was palpable. It was the blood bond of course.

"Come, let's go inside. There is much to discuss," he murmured. He cast one last glance in the direction of the trees and turned to walk back into Sookie's house.

Once inside she was the usual polite hostess. After she had finished preparing Eric a True Blood and asking whether there were anything else she could get him (eliciting from him a very Eric-like mischievous smile), she retreated to the solitude of her bedroom to change into pajamas. It was a silent movement; a decision without explanation. Eric did not ask where she was going. He seemed to understand her need to be alone. It never occurred to her that he too needed to be alone.

Changing into her soft plaid flannel pajamas was almost soothing . . . almost. Sookie caught a glimpse of the outside world, which was now subsumed by darkness. A heavy tiredness settled over her as she realized that this horrendous day was finally coming to an end. She splashed water onto her face, hoping to find her second wind, and reluctantly headed back to the living room.

She found Eric standing with his back to her. He did not turn to face her. She realized in that moment that she hadn't really ever _looked_ at his back. Like most vampires, he was walking sex. He was beautiful beyond measure and exuded more sensuality than the entire list of _People Magazine's_ "50 Most Beautiful People" put together. His flaxen hair cascaded to his shoulders with a devil-may-care playfulness and his broad, muscular back strained against its soft, black fabric encasement.

Sookie felt momentarily guilty for indulging her roving eye at a time like this, but hey, she was only human . . . and this was Eric . . . and it had been a while since she'd been able to admire him. He was still silent. He was either allowing her to admire him or was waiting for her to begin. Either way, the silence was deafening, and she couldn't hold back any longer. "So, why are you here?"

"Your Claudine called me," he said simply. His back was still to her.

"Okaaaay, I got all that. What I don't understand is _one,_ why she called _you_, and _two_, why you're here when you should be taking care of Fangtasia." Her tone was pointed, bordering on sharp. She was only a question away from the limits of her patience, and she felt that if she had to pry one more answer out of someone she would . . . .

"I'm here because it is important for me to be here. Pam can take care of Fangtasia." He paused briefly, still staring out the window. "What happened here, in this living room, is of far greater magnitude than the pathetic excuse for a diversion that happened at Fangtasia."

Sookie opened her mouth to speak, to ask what he meant by Fangtasia, but it was his turn to talk. "I'm afraid it seems you've landed yourself in the center of a modern upgrade of a very old battle." His voice was steady, and he was absolutely still. He had been still for the past few minutes. He had made not a single movement—not even when he spoke. Inexplicably, not being able to see Eric's face was making her anxious—not that she could have read him anyway.

For the first time since Sookie had known him, he stood demonstrating to her the pallid stillness of death. He had dropped his veneer. The vast, yawning caverns of the difference between human and vampire nearly engulfed her. The reality of the moment clanged around in her chest before migrating to her mind. She sat down on her couch, the force of her anger robbing her of all her residual energy. He was doing this for a reason, but she couldn't quite understand why. "Where does that leave you?"

He moved for the first time since she'd re-entered the room, and took a seat next to her on the couch. He leaned in toward her, seeming to breathe her in and measure her with his calculating eyes, "I'm not sure." He said nothing further.

"That's not an answer," she pressed.

"I know," he paused. "You see, as I've told you before, I don't like having feelings . . . ."

"Well, it's a little too late for that," she cut him off.

"Clearly," he said flatly and perhaps a bit angrily. Well, he didn't sound angry but she could feel a little flare of anger rush through the bond. She held up her hand in warning. She was _so_ not in the mood for a conversation about his emotions with respect to her. Romance was so far from her mind.

She stood up and hastily moved toward the door. "You can just leave. My brother and his wife are dead, I've got some psychotic fairy stalking and hypnotizing me, and I'm in no mood to hear about your feelings, Eric." She was probably being unreasonable, but her mouth had seemed to have assumed a life of its own.

He opened his mouth to speak. She again held up a hand to silence him, and flung open the front door. "Eric Northman, I . . . ." She never finished her sentence. He was up and before her in a flash. His mouth pressed to hers so passionately that her knees gave out. She could feel his tongue probing and caressing. Her entire being was engulfed in molten heat.

He rested her limp body on the soft sofa cushions she had abandoned only moments before. He began speaking softly, rapidly, melodically before she could gather enough sense to conjure up her own vocabulary. "I never had the chance to explain." He rushed, "I do not like having feelings because they impair my decision-making. It is more difficult to make decisions that will ensure my survival and the survival of my children and subjects."

She moved to open her mouth and respond. He placed a single finger over her lips and stared intently into her eyes. She suddenly thought of ice cubes on fire. She thought if such an anomaly could exist, it would be representative of Eric's eyes at that moment. "We all must choose sides eventually. This time, I'm afraid, the difference between good and bad will not be so clear." She thought she saw a flicker of sadness . . . or some vampire equivalent to sadness . . . behind his eyes. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived, and Sookie decided she had imagined it. This was Eric, after all.

"Do I even want to know what that means?" She asked. Even to her own ears her voice sounded resigned, pathetic.

Eric shrugged and sat back on his heels. Without his face, scent, and eyes so close to her own she could think straight. "So," she asked slowly, thoughtfully, "was the being that came to visit me today a fairy? Niall said he was, but I feel like there was something more going on there."

Eric looked as uneasy as something as confident and assured as Eric could possibly look. In Sookie's mind this was yet another very, very bad thing. She gave him an expectant "I'm waiting look." He sighed. "Yes, and no. And, before you shriek at me, try to understand."

"I'm waiting," she said impatiently. He frowned, but continued. "Could you remember much about him today when you spoke with Niall?" he asked.

She jolted a bit at the question because, of course, she had hardly remembered anything about the mysterious visitor. He had been a shadow. She told Eric that much and he nodded gravely. "Can you recall him with greater clarity now?" he asked softly. Sookie thought hard about the afternoon, and imagined the figure standing over her. She could see clearly his alabaster skin and gleaming hair. His square jaw and penetrating gaze were prominently displayed to her consciousness. She was shocked. Eric was impassive. "I don't understand," she said.

"I once told you that fairies thought more highly of themselves than they ought to, correct?" She nodded, still completely confused. "Well," he continued, "you have to understand where that mindset comes from to understand how it relates to your current situation." He moved to join her on the couch, and pulled her bare foot onto his lap.

Eric absent-mindedly traced his fingers in a bow-tie shape around her ankle bone. She had never felt anything more exciting in her life. She struggled to maintain her focus as her thighs went up in flames. The corners of his mouth quirked up as he felt her excitement course through their blood bond. "Mmmmm. . . . the mindset . . . right . . ." she murmured.

"Are you paying attention, Sookie?" Eric asked playfully. Sookie's half-closed lids fluttered, "mmm hmmm," she replied. "Well," he continued despite her distractedness. "You'll recall that I once told you fairies have a higher opinion of themselves than is warranted. Do you remember?"

"Mmmmmm," she crooned.

Eric laughed lightly. "Well, I will take that as a 'yes,'" he said with mirth, clearly pleased that their shared bond was lightening the inevitably weighty conversation. "And, what you have to understand is that the origin of fairies is much disputed. It is much disputed among the fae themselves, it is much disputed among the greater supernatural community, and is all but unknown to the human community."

Sookie sat up a bit and nearly forgot Eric's gentle touch—she wondered why she was even letting him touch her. Things were so far from resolved between the two of them. Something about his words resonated with her. She was intrigued.

"As with all things, the truth lies somewhere between all the explanations," he continued, sensing her interest. "Like many human deities or demons, the fae are thought to have descended from an ancient race of humans that were unlike other humans of their time."

"_Humans_?" Sookie asked incredulously. "How is that even possible."

"Many things are possible . . . and of course, Dear One, they were a different species or type of human. They were thought to be children of gods and men. Achilles in his time would have been claimed by the fae. As the son of Thetis and Peleus, he was not immortal but he was far more than mere human."

"I remember that . . ." Sookie chimed in, "I learned about him by reading some of my textbooks. I didn't think his mom was a God, though."

"No. She was not a God," Eric corrected, "she was a lesser Goddess, and the father was a royal mortal. This was exceedingly common in antiquity, and it grew so common that any child with special _abilities_ was thought to be of a superior race as children of mixed mortal and immortal heritage. The label of "fae" came much later. There were other names used by the Greeks."

"Riiiight," she agreed. "But, I don't understand what this has to do with this guy who showed up here today, the fact that Jason was killed, and some kind of a choice I'll need to make." She was getting impatient. Eric was giving her a history lesson, not an explanation, and she wanted the latter. She told Eric as much. "Look, all day long—and it has been a looooong day, Buddy!—I've been getting this cryptic crap! People—no, not even people, things, beings, supes, whatever—have been talking around, over, and under me, but have told me nothing!"

Sookie pulled her feet away from Eric and pulled back. "My brother's dead. I'm in danger. I need to know _why!"_

"It is because of who you are, who Niall is, and how the fairy underworld works." He said flatly. "As I was explaining," Sookie could hear the disdainful unsaid 'before I was interrupted,' in the undercurrents of his voice, "descent plays a great deal of importance in the fae hierarchy. It is a species that is slowly dwindling, that has tried to revive itself, has been only modestly successful, and is in constant tumult."

"And . . ." she prompted after a moment's thought and hesitation.

"And . . ." he looked at her incredulously at the obviousness (to him) of it all, "the fairies are in a fight for survival power struggle. They are trying to capitalize on the upheaval to restructure the fairy world. Beyond that, I know very little about the fairy struggles. I do not know the specifics of what they are fighting over. Only that there is much disagreement between factions . . . or, families, rather . . . regarding what will ensure their survival. They are quite secretive."

"How do you know all of this if they're so secretive?"

He gave her a small grin, but didn't answer her question. "If your visitor was indeed Breandan, you are in more trouble than you can imagine," he warned.

"Breandan? Is that his name?" she paused and debating asking more questions. Her mind was brimming over with them. "Hold on," she said when Eric opened his mouth to respond. "I need a second to think. I mean, what I really want to know is _who is this guy_? I mean, I'm certain he's the one who wrote the note . . . B should be for Breandan . . . . But, why is he coming to me? Why did he kill my brother? And, what the Hell do all these things have to do with one another?" Eric waited, as if sensing she wasn't finished. "Oh yeah," she followed up, "why should I be in 'more trouble than I can imagine?" she asked with a mocking tone.

"Yes, his name is Breandan. He is something more than mere fae, and is ranked perhaps a little higher than Niall in the hierarchy because of this even though he is younger." Eric flashed a rueful grin. "That alone is probably enough to make Niall hate him."

Sookie shot him a look, but he just shrugged. "You asked. Anyhow, it would appear that he needs you. Or, he needs something from you. If not him, then someone he works for." Eric explained. By this point in the conversation he had picked up Sookie's latest romance novel and was thumbing through the pages. His eyebrows rose at whatever he had encountered on his current page. "Either way, they are high up in the hierarchy and exceedingly dangerous. From what I understand. they are no friends of Niall, and they will stop at nothing to get what they want . . . whatever that might be." He paused for a moment and flipped the page.

"And my brother," she pressed.

For a moment, Eric looked thoughtful. In fact, she would have said that he almost looked _stumped_. His face went back to its neutral expression in no time, and he was back to reading her book. The corners of his lips and his right eyebrow rose when he flipped the page. She had a mind to rip the book right out of his hand. "I cannot be certain about their motive for killing him . . . if it even was Breandan or his faction. It could have been a message to you. Or, your brother could have been perceived as a threat. There is no way to know, really," he concluded.

Sookie had no idea what to say. It was the most information she'd gotten all day, but it still didn't answer all of her questions. She contemplated whether or not to press for more information or to let it go and dip into the well later. He didn't give her a chance to try.

No, instead he moved in for the kill, catching her off guard. His large but skillful Viking hands were all over her body, caressing her arms, back, neck, face and hair as he pulled Sookie toward him along the couch. Tiny fireworks were erupting over every inch of her skin, and a tingling was developing in the pit of her stomach.

She knew she should fight him off, maintain control of the situation. It was the wrong time. She should be grieving and frightened. The feeling of a supernatural man's touch should have made her skin crawl—in a bad way. But her resolve was melting. At first she felt a bit lightheaded because she was breathing so rapidly and shallowly—it was the anticipation.

Then his hands gently but purposefully caressed her shivering breasts through her nightclothes. A second wind swept through her, and she nearly jumped right on top of him. He was so appetizing. He was like a big blond sexy chocolate someone had set out on the table specifically for her to devour.

His hair was gleaming in the gentle light, and his skin held that sultry vampire glow. Her face was so close to his that she would have felt his breath if he could breathe. It wasn't quite hypnotic, not the way the fairy had been, but it was enticing. It would be so easy to give in to the promise of pure Viking pleasure. She could feel her heart fluttering in anticipation as it beat against her breastbone.

He pulled her onto his jean-clad lap. Her legs straddled his hips and wrapped around behind him on the couch. His gracious plenty strained against the denim of his dark washed jeans, and made its presence known against her inner thigh. A soft whimper of longing escaped from her throat, but she quickly regretted it. Her warm breath, accelerated heart rate, and oh-so human noises had apparently awoken the primal, animal vampire in him. He pressed his mouth to hers, hungrily devouring her scent and taste.

Sookie was responding with fervor, in spite of herself. She could smell and taste the sensual dryness of vampire and pressed herself closer in to Eric's robust torso.

She felt his fangs emerge against her lip, and he ran them gently over her chin, to her throat. He traced small lines with his tongue and fangs before gradually lowering his face into her flushed and shivering décolleté. Lust and longing surged through the bond; Eric was gently sliding up Sookie's pajama shirt, freeing her breasts, and running his thumbs across her hardened nipples.

She began moving against him, feeling his voracious hunger through the bond. She knew she should stop, but the contact was just too soothing, too freeing. If anything could transport her away from the pain and heaviness of the day's events, it was this. Giving in to her own desire for pleasure, she began to reciprocate Eric's gesture, sliding the hem of his shirt up over his torso.

The edge of his shirt, and her hands, reached his nipple line. She took one of the nipples between her thumb and forefinger and gave it a rough squeeze. Eric expressed his gratitude by leaning his head onto the back of the couch and releasing a long, slow sigh of pleasure. His eyes were closed and his lips parted. She felt the intense wave of desire crash into her from the bond. It was so strong and consuming; she felt a lurching and clenching feeling deep inside her pelvis.

Eric, too, had apparently felt her mounting tension through the bond and began moving rhythmically beneath her. Sookie's inner thighs were melting into two fiery pillars of molten lava. His hands were moving now, covering her entire body. They were stroking, caressing, sliding, rubbing, thumbing, stroking. And then, he stopped.

Everything stopped—the kissing, gyrating, pawing, and moaning just stopped. Presently, Sookie found herself crumpled into the corner of the couch with Eric in a defensive position in front of her. A low growl erupted from deep in his throat. Sookie's head spun. Only a moment before she had been dizzy with passion and on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Now she was dizzy from being spun and tossed. She was also frightened.

"Interrupting, am I?" a familiar voice asked patronizingly from the far corner of the room. Sookie craned her neck to see, but the area was shrouded in darkness.

Eric gave another warning growl, but did not move. "Yes, but that was your plan, was it not?"

"Relax, Viking." Sookie wondered at the voice's petulant tone. She also wondered at Eric's stillness. _Why isn't he attacking this intruder?_ There was a pause in the visitor's speech, and then, "Because he knows I'm not here to hurt you, Sookie."

She wondered if she had spoken aloud by accident, but quickly understood. The intruder had read her mind. A moment later, he stepped out of the shadows and into the light. It was the same strange fairy who had visited her before. "I had doubts that I'd be able to see you again so soon, but I had to try. There is much more that I need to tell you," he continued.

At that moment, as if she had not bourne enough that day, her front door swung open, and her neighbor, Bill Compton, strode in. He looked somber and concerned with his corpse-white skin and dusky hair. He took in the room, and his face erupted into a series of barely discernable emotions as he took in what he saw: disgust at Eric and Sookie's scantily clad state and shock tinged with awe at the sight of the unwelcome intruder.

"What the Hell is going on here?!" Bill exclaimed.

"I think the better question, _Bill_, would be what are _you_ doing _here_?" Sookie practically shrieked, simultaneously overwhelmed and furious.

Bill fidgeted uncomfortably. "I'd rather speak to you in private."

"This is as private as it's gonna get. So, either tell me what you're doing here or get out."

_TBC . . . _


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: [EPOV (Present—set after return from Philly & Boston, after convo with Pam, and prior to meeting with Supernatural Council)]: _So, after our little Sookie POV pre-flight sojourn, I'm taking us back to Eric's present day. Sorry I took so damn long to update this—sucky mainstreaming is killing me ;-(._

_As always, all rights belong to Charlaine Harris. Thanks for creating such addictive and interesting characters._

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* * *

  
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"You look tired . . . like you need a snack." She appraised the pallor and drawn quality of his skin.

"Hmph," was all he said. He knew she was right. It had been too long since he had fed. He was hungry, horny, and needed a release. She rolled her eyes at him.

"There are a few acceptable bloodbags hanging around waiting to catch a glimpse of you. Apparently, word traveled fast that the ancient Viking vampire turned good will ambassador was back in town. They're all waiting for a piece of you." Pam drawled with a twinge of sarcasm, but he knew she secretly enjoyed it.

* * *

A few hours after his repartee with Pam, Eric found himself in a room with swank velvet blackout curtains, cream-colored walls, and mahogany furnishings. It was his room, of course, but it had been so long since he'd last used it. He had purchased it as a safe hideaway for Sookie and himself, or both. Part of him had hoped the pair would have reason to retreat to it. He had seen the writing on the wall long before the war began and long before Sookie's fae heritage had interfered with his elaborate plans.

The bedside lamps were on, but dimmed, casting interesting shadows over the walls. He sat motionless on the intricately stitched comforter. It felt soft against his skin, and he recalled that the saleswoman had told his day man that the fabric was a high thread count. His day man had explained that this would increase the fabric's comfort. Eric had laughed at this—well, more at the lengths to which humans had gone in order to sell products—but told his day man to purchase the overpriced piece of cloth anyhow.

He ran his hand along the stitching. It was subtle yet elegant. His bonded would enjoy it, and although he hadn't purchased it with Sookie in mind, he now imagined the possibilities. He imagined that the fangbanger "freshening up" in the bathroom was his bonded and that it was her he would throw down onto the bed. It was her blood he imagined he would taste and her warm body he would feel.

Of course, it was not his bonded, as he was so swiftly reminded when the bathroom door swung open. "This is a beautiful room," the strange young woman said with a nervous edge to her voice.

Eric, despite his bitterness at this woman not being his bonded, admired her beauty. His child had good taste . . . and an even better sense of humor. The woman was relatively tall and quite dainty, with well-rounded curves and full lips. She had raven black hair, bright green eyes, and pale skin. She was also a werewolf.

Eric was not averse to taking his meal from a werewolf, even though it was not his first choice. He was, however, averse to any possibility of a trap presenting itself in the form of a beautiful Were woman. He leapt off the bed; his movements were clearly a blur to the Were and caught her off guard. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear as he held her body in mid-air by her throat. Her feet kicked out angrily but ineffectually, and her fingernails dug at the flesh of his hands drawing small drops of blood.

She was gasping and rasping for air. "Why are you here?" he asked. "Who sent you?" Eric followed up with his commanding voice. He could feel the Were's tears streaming down her cheeks and over his hands.

He relaxed his grip, and she choked out a response, "No one . . . let . . . _gulp_ . . . me . . ." her breath was ragged as she choked out the words, "down . . . or . . ._eh, eh_ . . . I'll . . . shift . . . ."

"You'll do no such thing. If you shift, I'll end you." He considered what his next approach should be. Certainly, it would be foolish to trust her, but it would be more foolish of her to try anything against him. "If I put you down and let you live, you must be honest with me." He met her eyes and put force behind his gaze. It was not quite glamour, but it was stronger than a stare. It was persuasion in its purest form.

The little Were girl was trying to nod her head despite the pressure from his hands. He dropped her, and she collapsed into a small lump of person on the floor. She hunched over herself, gasping, choking, and clasping her throat with her delicate left hand. Eric regarded this creature with curiosity. She was extremely delicate for a werewolf. This would make her the perfect unassuming spy. He would have glamoured, drained, then ejected her right then and there had it not been for his intuition.

Something about this girl was soft and gentle. She was not a spy, and she most certainly was not a killer. Though Eric had learned over the course of his long life that everyone had the potential to be a spy, liar, or killer, very few were those things without necessity or reason. This woman definitely needed a reason—and he had given her none. "Tell me, stranger," he finally said to her as she collected her breath and began pulling herself up off the floor. "Why are you here?"

She regarded him thoughtfully and with a touch of bitterness and hurt. "What do you mean? I'm here to be with the famed Viking vampire, of course," she said acidly.

"You're a Were." It was not a question.

Her face darkened even more. "Yes. But you tell me I'm a Were like _I _don't know my own nature," she hissed this through her teeth. "Who do you think _you_ are!" Her chest was heaving, and her upper chest and cheeks were flushed. She appeared insulted and on the verge of real tears.

"I'm the _famed Viking vampire_," he replied with sarcasm. "Do not be so sensitive," he held out his hand to her and she recoiled a bit, "I have many enemies among your kind. There are more than a few who would send you to me as a spy." He kept his voice even and calm, and continued holding his hand out to her. Internally, he was losing his patience. Typically, he would not mind placating the girl. It might even be a fun game for him, bringing her from frightened and angry to excited and willing in a short period of time, but not tonight. He was irritated, and her timidity was beginning to aggravate him. How could she possibly believe he would just let her into his chambers with no precaution?

She finally placed her hand in his. "Well, you've no need to worry about _that_," she said. He helped her up, and she brushed at her stylish black tube dress that was comprised of a lacy overlay with sparse sequins patterned throughout. It was tasteful and elegant. It also appeared very expensive. He wondered to which pack she belonged.

"To which pack do you swear allegiance?" he asked.

"That's just the thing," she responded, "I don't swear allegiance to any pack! I don't want to live that life . . . _I HATE being a werewolf!_" She exclaimed this last with such force and passion that it caught Eric off guard. This was certainly a most unusual situation.

"Why are you here?" he asked for the second time. He hated repeating himself, but found himself doing it anyway. Even if this rogue Were had no desire to join a pack, it should have been her natural impulse to recoil from him. He was after all, her natural enemy. Yet, here was this tiny thing—neither brave nor cowardly; neither strong nor weak. She was disclaimed and very much alone with an ancient and dangerous vampire. It suddenly dawned on Eric that he knew exactly why she was there. "You should know that I will not turn you," he added.

The little Were's face contorted into a hideous pout. She opened her mouth to speak.

"You look rather ugly when you wear that face," Eric said with a bored quality to his voice. He sat on the edge of the bed, and she stood in front of him, glaring. She was on the verge of spitting, shouting, and throwing a temper tantrum. It was perfect. It was just what his bonded would have done if he had just insulted her or denied her something she wanted. He waited for the flood of emotion. It didn't come.

Instead, the pout disappeared from her face, and she inched closer to Eric. Her face took on a sultry look, and her eyes were giving what Eric was certain was her best "come-hither" look. "Well, if that's the way you're gonna play it," she purred, "we can just have a little fun instead."

"Tell me . . . I'm sorry, I don't know your name," he said.

"Fiona," she cooed and fluttered her eyelashes. He held back the chuckle that had formed in his chest.

"Okay, tell me this Fiona, do you have any idea of what you're getting into here?"

Fiona blew out a quick puff of air and looked deflated. Her frustration was obvious. "Why are you making this so difficult?" she asked and spinning around, plopped down onto the bed in one easy, graceful movement. "Why can't you just give me what I want?"

"Because others will know what you are, or rather, what you _were_. You will never be accepted. You will live a half-life, bitter and difficult. I have no desire to be the target of your ire when you decide you loath what you are, and I'm the one who made you." He explained. "At any rate, I hate to disappoint. It is quite apart from my nature, but this is not a situation in which I wish to be involved." He stood and moved toward the phone located on the corner desk.

"Wait!" Fiona reached out to grab his arm. He spun and faced her, dropped his fangs, and hissed in warning. She dropped to her knees. "Please," she whispered, her voice colored with desperation. "Please . . . ."

"Get out," he said. His voice was barely a whisper. He was hungry, and her pathetic expression and crumpled form roused the sleeping predator within him. It was taking every ounce of self-control to keep from either draining her or tossing her through the door into the hallway. He still could not understand himself. Why was he being so patient? Why not just take the little bloodbag, glamour her, and move on? He could apparently leave her in the gutter—she seemed not to belong to a pack, and so it would be easy to dispose of her and wipe her existence from his own memory.

"You don't understand," she sobbed, "I . . . have . . . nowhere . . . to go . . . ." she gasped desperately. Her pale, pretty face was streaked with mascara black tears, and her chest was pink and heaving with emotion. "She said you would help me!"

This last plea brought Eric up short. He could not fathom that anyone he knew would tell her such nonsense . . . and a she? "Who told you? Surely not Pam?" _Surely not_, he reassured himself, _my Child is mischievous but not mad. Surely, she would stop short of creating this sort of mischief. She knows what is at stake_, he continued rationalizing in disbelief.

"Who's P-P-Pam?" the Were girl asked through her tears. "I don't know a Pam," she hiccupped as she spoke. Eric briefly wondered at her age, thinking she must be very young and immature to make such a scene.

"Pam is my second," he stated dully in an effort to control his internal impatience. She was lucky he had many years of practice. Four hundred years earlier and he would have fed from her under the guise of turning her, and either killed her or glamoured her within an inch of her sanity—anything to be rid of her.

"Pam is the one who brought you to me," he continued patiently. "She is also the one who will retrieve you from this room in a moment."

"No," she said, "no." He could feel his eyebrows raise ever so slightly in surprise. It was not often he heard the word "no"—at least not directed at him. "It wasn't . . . ."

"Shhh," he held a finger over his lips. The Were girl fell silent and glared at Eric from her seat on the floor in front of his bed. "I have to make a call." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit Pam's shortcut number. It barely rang before she answered.

"Done already? Hmmmm, that was fast," Pam practically snickered. "Aren't you at all worried about your _reputation?_"

"In other circumstances I would find your mocking humorous," was all he replied.

"What do you mean in other circumstances? Was she not satisfactory?" Pam asked. There was still a trace of playfulness there, but it was wary now. Pam knew her maker. She knew something was wrong. "Did you not appreciate the vintage?" she pressed.

"Pam. You must come get her. You do not realize what you've done." he said. This last comment broke the Were's silence. "NO!" she roared. "NO! You musn't do this! You don't understand!"

"Eric, what the Hell is going on over there?" Pam asked with a hint of alarm.

"You owe me," he said. "A lot."

"_I_ owe _you_?" she purred. "That's rich, Eric."

He sighed. "She wants me to turn her, Pam. That is the sole reason she sought me out." He said. "You know I do not have time for this right now."

"Oh," came Pam's response. "Why you? Why not me or any other old vampire? Most fangbangers are not so choosy."

"That is a very interesting question," he responded in Old Norse. "I am not yet certain. She is babbling incoherently now, but has informed me that a '_she'_ told her _I_ would help her. At first, I believed she was referring to you, but you would never say something so foolhardy. It is clearly not the answer."

The other end of the line was silent. Eric sensed it was a thoughtful silence—Pam was sharp and devious, and much like him, very adept at divining the true motive behind another's actions. She responded in Old Norse, in a voice slightly above a whisper that would have been imperceptible to human ears. "Do you think her response would be trustworthy? Have you considered she may have been sent by your enemies?"

"I considered that and attempted to extract that information," he said. "She swears both that she holds no allegiance to any pack and that she loathes being a werewolf."

"Strange," was Pam's only response.

"Indeed."

"Well, you are not going to like this suggestion," Pam continued in Old Norse, "but it is my opinion that you find out who sent her to you. Then, depending upon the information you receive, either turn her or kill her. Your choice."

Pam's bluntness and practicality was a constant source of pride and amusement for him—even when the course of action she recommended was the course of action he was most avoiding. He rubbed the space between his eyebrows. For the first time, in a long time, he understood what other old vampires meant when they said they were tired or world-weary. As he listened to the girl's soft whimpering and Pam's expectant silence, he understood that he would need to put his search for Sookie on hold. It irked him that the decision he was about to make would take him away from the thing he most wanted, but it was necessary. His intuition left no room for doubt. He was supposed to help this girl, and it would somehow affect his meeting with the Council.

"Very well," he said after a significant pause.

"Fascinating," Pam answered with a thoughtful intonation to her voice. "Let me know how it goes." _Click_.

He turned to face the crumpled form shivering next to the bed. He leaned down and put his hand under her chin, turning her tear-streaked face to look up at him. He scrutinized her, trying to understand why his instinct was silent about her, but roaring loud about his role in the situation. "Much to my own surprise, I find myself wanting to help you." Her face looked uplifted for the first time since he'd taken her throat in his strong hands. "However, before you get too excited," he continued and the hope started inching off of her face, "think of this not as _help_, but instead an _exchange_."

Her face was instantly suspicious. She was a girl who had been tricked and hurt before—and probably many times, in his estimation. "What sort of exchange?"

"Let's say it would be an information-for-services exchange." He stood, and in one quick motion, transferred her light body from the floor to the chair situated near the mahogany desk. He pulled over a chair from the other side of the room and seated himself across from her. The soft lighting danced across her delicate features. He wondered what type of vampire she would make. She looked so delicate and gentle. He hoped there was something ruthless buried inside her. She would need it were she to become a half-breed vampire.

"What sort of information?" she asked. "And what sort of services would I receive for the information? Would you turn me? If so, what will you do with me after turning me? And," she attempted to continue, but held up his finger in a shushing motion.

"You must understand a few things," he explained. "Anyone familiar—at all—with the vampire community knows that I do not simply turn vampires. They must be registered; I have numerous children in positions of power already. It would be highly suspicious to all if I created a half-breed. There must be a very good reason for me to turn a new vamp. Do you understand?"

She nodded briskly, but he waited a moment before continuing. She nodded again with sincerity, and spoke, "I understand. Creating a new vampire would probably create problems for you. Where does that leave me?"

"In the position that whatever information you have to offer me should be worth the hassle," he answered.

"And who decides?" she pressed.

"I do, of course."

"But, what guaran- . . . ." He cut her off. "I believe you will find I am quite fair in matters of business. Incidentally, I consider this a matter of business."

She was still reluctant. "What will happen if you decide to turn me?"

He sat back in his chair, allowing his limbs to relax for the first time since this ordeal had begun, and contemplated the advantages of creating a half-breed child. "I will not be able to turn you immediately," he said. "You will have a few days to settle your affairs as a human and werewolf."

Fiona looked distraught. "Why won't you turn me right away?" she asked.

"No one said I was turning you at all." He replied coolly. "If I do, it will be at my discretion."

The young Were looked pained, as if she wanted to jump up-and-down and argue with him. She didn't. She bit her tongue until she regained her calm and rationalized that this was the closest to a promise she was going to get. Eric, on the other hand, was internally weighing the potential benefits to ramifications of turning this creature. She could be both an asset and a liability—particularly with regard to his search for Sookie. And yet, he had the feeling he _should_ turn her. Only, it made no sense to him. In his orderly mind, it was the last thing he should do at this time. His keen 1,000 year old vampire instincts were humming a different tune.

"I trust these terms are satisfactory to you," he stated when she did not protest. Fiona nodded her head, and even managed a small and disappointed "yes." Eric nodded. "Good. It is done. You will now tell me why you chose _me_ to turn you, and if I find your answer satisfactory, I will turn you. If not, I reserve the right to deny you or to continue my quest for information if I find it necessary to my survival . . . and perhaps your own."

"But I told you why I sought you out!" she exclaimed, mystified.

"No. You only said you were here to be with the famed Viking vampire," he retorted.

"No," she insisted, "Someone told me to find you. She said you were the one I needed to see . . . that you could make me safe. And she is a very trustworthy person," she explained.

"Who?"

"I can't tell you that."

"We had a bargain," he reminded her.

"Yes," she said, "but the bargain was to give you information about why I chose you. I can't give you the name of the person who told me to seek you out."

Eric feigned a breath. His body had not needed air for a millennium, but he thought it provided the right amount of emphasis. He was right. She squirmed a bit in her chair, sensing his agitation. Apparently, she was smart enough to realize that despite his restrained demeanor, this was a vampire—an old, proud, and lethal vampire. Not a single other soul knew where she was. "I-I-I didn't mean to insinuate that you didn't remember the bargain we struck; obviously you remember it better than I do; I know you meant that to be the bargain, but . . ." she rambled ineffectually.

"But nothing," he finished. "I informed you the terms of the bargain were simple. I request information of you. You provide the requested information. If your information is useful, I turn you. If not, well, you should learn to love being a Were because I will ensure that no other vampire turns you—not in my jurisdiction or many others. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend." He rose to his full height and inclined his head in her direction, blond hair brushing his shoulders and falling in front of his eyes.

"Wha . . . ?" Fiona's eyes were wide and dismayed, but he cut her off before she could say anything. "You're welcome to stay here," he explained. "You may have this room for the night, and think over your decision carefully. If you still desire to be made vampire, be here tomorrow night at 11 p.m. Sharp."

Her full lips were locked together in an awkward grimace, and her green eyes were filling with tears. It was as if she was watching someone brick up the solitary hole in her prison cell; as if she was watching her freedom sealed away behind the bricks. She looked on the verge of so many different emotions—anger, sadness, hope, elation, despair, and desperation. Many things bubbled behind those lips, but nothing was coming out.

He moved swiftly toward the door, straightening his hair and righting his collar and tie. He spared her no greeting as he fully expected to see her again the following night. She would break, of that he was certain. She wanted to be a vampire, and he was persuasive.

What he did not expect was what happened next. In fact, it was so unexpected he doubted he'd been so surprised in many, many years. When the barely whispered words left the Were's trembling red lips, he thought he had imagined them. He doubted, for the first time, that his perfect vampire hearing was that. So in shock were his senses that the entire room seemed to condense, the colors, lights, patterns all blending together and meeting inside the center of his brain. Nothing made sense. "_What_?" he hissed. His breath was sharp, and his voice hoarse.

"Sookie Stackhouse," she whispered again, a regretful tone creeping into her voice. She was the thief who sold out her accomplice in order to obtain a favorable plea agreement. Now came the buyer's remorse. "I should never have said anything." Her voice was strained with silent tears.

"What about Sookie Stackhouse," he asked calmly, trying to regain his equilibrium.

"She's the one who told me about you."

"When?" he pressed.

"A few years back." Her fist was clenching and unclenching on her lap.

"Where?"

"Boston. But she's not there anymore. She disappeared." There was a tinge of spite and triumph in her voice as she pronounced those last words.

Eric thought for a moment. This information was more than he could have ever hoped for. He was certain that this Were was brought to him by forces beyond him. In that moment he knew without doubt that he would find his bonded. "Providence . . ." he whispered. The word had meant little to him—human mumbo jumbo they used to explain surprises. His arrogance faltered.

"What?" she asked, dismayed.

"Nothing," he replied briskly. He paused and then turned to face the Were. His composure was regained. He was vampire again. "Nothing that concerns you. Your information has proved valuable. I shall turn you. Wait here. I have a meeting to attend, but I will turn you within the week. I believe I will need your assistance as a vampire, after all." He flashed a small smile at her, and a tinge of relief pushed aside some of the regret from her face.

"Sookie Stackhouse," he whispered to himself as he walked out of his room and toward the meeting where he would change forever the future of the supernatural community.

_TBC . . . _


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: [EPOV] _Author's Note: Hi all! I (think I) am back! I've been working hellishly long hours—usually 12 hour days, and other such nonsense. So, I've been too tired to write, and my muse sort of died. On a more cheerful note, however, I did manage to jot a lot of notes while at work, so I should have the next three or four chapter rewrites up pretty quickly. _

_Additionally, some may dislike the brevity of this chapter, but I think it works best this way. It's a small building block that makes better sense as a piece of a larger chain of events that will be explained in the next three chapters. Additonally, because of the brevity, I didn't bother my Beta for help with such a short chappy. Any errors are mine and mine alone. _

_As always, thank you to Charlaine Harris for creating such a fascinating supernatural world with fun characters I just cannot leave behind. Thanks again for your readership, and feedback. As always, feel free to comment! _

_Glad to be back!!_

_

* * *

  
_

_From Chapter 10_:

Eric thought for a moment. This information was more than he could have ever hoped for. He was certain that this Were was brought to him by forces beyond him. In that moment he knew for certain that he would find his bonded. "Providence . . ." he whispered. The word had meant little to him. Human mumbo jumbo they used to explain surprises. His arrogance faltered.

"What?" She asked, dismayed.

"Nothing," he replied briskly. He paused and then turned to face the Were. His composure was regained. He was vampire again. "Nothing that concerns you. Your information has proved valuable. I shall turn you. Wait here. I have a meeting to attend, but I will turn you within the week. I believe I will need your assistance as a vampire, after all." He flashed a small smile at her, and a tinge of relief pushed aside some of the regret from her face.

"Sookie Stackhouse," he whispered to himself as he walked out of his room, and toward the meeting where he would change forever the future of the supernatural community.

* * *

Eric was glad for the gentle monotonous roar of his Maserati's engine. It was soothing. It was like one of those CDs he'd heard some humans use to relax—gurgling streams, babbling brooks, breezes blowing through forests. He had always found it strange that humans paid to have those sounds recorded onto a CD when the real things were not only better, but also free.

He drove like a race car driver, and encountered no other cars along the way. The deep, silent darkness of the early morning hours were always the most peaceful; the most reflective. Well, the most externally peaceful. Ordinarily, the seemingly endless expanse of road-lining trees and fence posts would lull him into a state of near-hypnosis. Each whirring compartment of his mind would function at full tilt, and many of his best ideas would spring forth.

This night, however, the silence only served to amplify the less productive visions and voices in his own mind. Visions of her. Imaginary whiffs of her scent. His visions of her were now the same—small remembered fragments of his strange beach-front dream. It both enthralled and irritated him.

He felt like Bill. In the logical compartments of his brain he knew he should be focusing on how to dictate the tone, tempo, and outcome of the meeting. He must quietly maneuver the Council so it would have the least possible control over him. Then he must find a way to turn Fiona in secret, and train her to be useful as a vampire. These things were of vital importance if he were to secure Sookie's place by his side before the new wave of conflict began.

Yet, all he wanted to do was remember her. A moonlit beach. A warm and balmy, salt-scented breeze. Golden hair back-lit by a near full moon and star-lit sky. The images tugged at his brain without permission and without reprieve. It was as if his subconscious was beating him over the head with a message he could not understand.

Eric's curiosity and determination were piqued by the time he reached the Supernatural Council's large clandestine meeting place. He has halfway down the dark hallway lined with stately wood archways and thick-framed portraits of portly men in elaborate costume when a familiar presence silently beckoned to him from the darkness of a nearby doorway.

"Breandan." Eric's voice was a slight whisper he knew the fairy would hear. "Were _you_ invited to the Council meeting? Or, are you here to see me?"

"Perhaps a little of both," a smooth voice responded as Breandan's shifting form emerged from the shadows. For Eric, the fairy's hazy image typically settled into a sandy-haired, copper-eyed, and fine-featured man of medium stature. Tonight was no exception. Though Eric knew Breandan's appearance shifted slightly to change based on who was seeing him, he found this ability unique and unsettling. And, despite the fact that Eric had known Breandan for nearly six hundred years, he still found the fairy's presence and shiftiness threatening. Breandan was one of the few creatures for whom Eric still held a healthy amount of respect and awe.

As Breandan strolled closer to Eric, he stayed pressed close to the stone. All around him, the tapestries and paintings lining the walls seemed to Eric to squirm and change under the weight of Breandan's shadow. Scenes that were dark and eerie were now light and airy. Scenes that had been light and airy were now bleak and barren. If he were capable of it, Eric would have had chills.

"I must say I'm surprised to see you here," Eric exaggerated. In fact, he was not at all surprised Breandan had sought him out; only that the fairy had chosen this particular Council meeting as the venue.

"Are you?" Breandan's voice was riddled with disbelief. "Ah, Northman. You are not the only one in this universe adept at strategy. Nor are you the only one who conducts his business with a sense of humor." Eric said nothing. "As you can imagine, there were quite a few Council members who were anxious to see me again--"

"And just as many who'd like to see you dead, no doubt." Eric interjected.

"Perhaps," said Breandan with alacrity. "Fortunately, you are not one of them." There was a pointed tone to his voice. He was hedging his bets.

"I am not a true member of the Council, either," Eric reminded the fairy. He was not amused. Breandan would attempt to align himself with Eric at the meeting. Only, Eric had no inkling as to what Breandan would want from him. It was his philosophy that you always need to know what the Devil _really_ wants before you bargain away your soul. The basics were easy enough to divine: Niall was missing; Breandan had a vested interest in Niall's disappearance, and so did the Council. The details were more elusive. The secretive faeries had managed to conceal from him most of what had happened among them during the great supernatural battle. His bonded possessed more insight, but then, she was part fae. The fae were her people, and these were her problems.

If only he had been able to go with her that day, to see what she had seen, to know what she knew.

"You are a friend of the Council, Northman." Breandan's whispered voice intruded his mind. "You could lead the Council if you so desired," he continued.

"And what is it that you want from me, other than my support? For what endeavor do you request my loyalty . . . and _time_?"

"To find out where Niall is, for one." He said. "Secondly, to find out how much the Council knows about the problems in the faerie realm. But you knew all of that." He paused for a moment, his narrowed gold eyes searching Eric's face. "Though I think you know where I am going with this. . . . I need to find your bonded. I need your help to find Sookie." He said, his voice low and barely a whisper.

Eric had already begun shaking his head, nearly involuntarily, when Breandan continued, "hear me out, Northman. I believe Niall has disappeared purposefully, with the intention of finding Sookie."

Eric jerked his head in the direction of a nearby room. This was not a conversation they needed to have in the open. Once inside the oval-shaped room of stone and polished wood, flanked with Medieval-styled tapestries and carpeted with Persian rugs, the two men conducted a quick search around the room for hidden recording devices.

Eric spoke first. "Why? Why would Niall try to find Sookie? It does not make sense. Surely Niall knows things in the supernatural world are again growing unstable." He sat on the edge of a desk, and stretched his pinstripe suit covered legs out before him. He rested his chin on his fist, and chose his words carefully before continuing. "She is quite valuable. I am surprised he would risk exposing her. He is aware that his enemies watch his every move."

Internally, Eric's musings were quite different. If Breandan was correct in his assumptions, he was now in a race for time. He needed to find Sookie before Niall did, and do so without risking exposure. If he had been careful before, he would need to be utterly invisible now. There was too much at stake. And, with a jolt he realized the first contacts he had made during his search for Sookie was with Claudine—he could have staked himself for his own stupidity.

"Ah. Well, it is not quite that simple Northman," came Breandan's strangely accented voice. "You see, Niall is the biggest threat she has. He wants her dead."

_TBC . . . . _


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: _Okay, so I think this might be close to a record turnaround time for me ;-). I hope this satisfies those who dislike waiting for long periods between chapters. I'm really happy with the way this chapter turned out, but it probably raises a few questions. You should find some of the answers in the next few chapters. At any rate, I had fun writing this chapter; I hope you have fun reading it!_

_As always, thank you to Hopestreet, who Beta'd this chapter and gave me good feedback regarding issues I need to address carefully. Also, thanks to Charlaine Harris, whose characters are just too damn fun! _

_Enjoy!_

_

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Chapter 13 excerpt:  
_

Eric spoke first. "Why? Why would Niall try to find Sookie? It does not make sense. Surely Niall knows things in the supernatural world are again growing unstable." He sat on the edge of a desk and stretched his pinstripe suit covered legs out before him. He rested his chin on his fist and chose his words carefully before continuing. "She is quite valuable. I am surprised he would risk exposing her. He is aware that his enemies watch his every move."

Internally, Eric's musings were quite different. If Breandan was correct in his assumptions, he was now in a race for time. He needed to find Sookie before Niall did, and do so without risking exposure. If he had been careful before, he would need to be utterly invisible now. There was too much at stake. And, with a jolt he realized the first contact he had made during his search for Sookie was with Claudine—he could have staked himself for his own stupidity.

"Ah. Well, it is not quite that simple, Northman," came Breandan's strangely accented voice. "You see, Niall is the biggest threat she has. He wants her dead."

* * *

Eric allowed the words to wash over him, pausing before responding. His hearing was flawless. He was certain he'd heard Breandan correctly, but could not believe that Niall would harm Sookie when she was so valuable. Warning bells cried out from the depths of his mind.

Before Eric could respond, Breandan continued, "So, she has kept her end of the bargain thus far, I see." he paused. "I knew I had a good feeling about trusting her." He said this last contemplatively, as if he'd been uncertain.

"The meeting begins in five minutes, Breandan. I have no time for riddles or vagaries," Eric added brusquely. And it was the truth. He was expected to greet and glad-hand all of the supernatural heads. In this instance, he required it. He would need to grease as many palms as necessary in order to alleviate himself of the duty of liaising with the Demon Prime Minister of Great Britain, whose support was needed in order to enter their territories to search for Niall.

"It's a long story—best told over mulled ale and a bottle of Royalty," Breandan answered. "After the meeting, perhaps?"

"It will be sunrise by that time," Eric answered with a bored tone to his voice, hiding his latent irritation. Being Eric, he loathed being "out of the loop," and despised being at the mercy of another's knowledge and requests. Breandan, if he was to be trusted, had Eric backed into a corner. Though the fairy could not read Eric's thoughts—only the tenor of his moods—he was one of the few that understood them. This was another reason Breandan had Eric's respect and yet another reason Eric would attempt to meet with him—that, and the fact that Breandan's talents could prove useful in locating Sookie. _Yes,_ Eric thought, _it is an idea worth considering. If his assertions about Niall are true, he can be used as a decoy to throw Niall off Sookie's trail. This will create a greater window of time in which I can conduct additional research into restoring our severed blood-bond. Of course, there is always the question of whether Breandan could be trusted with any information leading to Sookie's location . . . . _

"I will meet with you to discuss it, but I am busy for the next three nights. We can meet at midnight on the fourth," Eric said after some consideration.

Breandan smiled like a Cheshire cat. "Please, bring your new child with you," he lilted, "and your second in command. Perhaps they can be of assistance."

Eric caught himself before he stiffened and reinforced his easy, bored posture. "Pam is my only surviving child within a reasonable distance. She is also my second. And she is very busy. I'm afraid you will have to settle for the pleasure of my company."

Breandan nodded with a knowing gleam in his eye. "As you wish, but my offer remains." He held out his robe-swathed arm in a sweeping gesture toward the heavy wooden doors, "shall we?"

* * * *

"How dare you ask this of the Council?" an elder bellowed. "Now, at a time of great need?" He was incredulous and glaring at Eric with every ounce of force his stare possessed. Eric briefly considered the possibility that the powerful ancient witch was trying to curse him. Apparently, Felipe and Breandan had the same idea and sought to intercede.

"Señor Northman, no one would refute the excellent . . . ." Filipe began in his elegant Spanish accent.

"Perhaps Northman's request would be advantageous to this Council . . ." Breandan's voice overtook Felipe's, which was no easy feat. Felipe was known for his charisma, as well as his public speaking and ability to persuade. Typically, when his mouth opened, others' mouths closed. Felipe's persuasive speaking ability had played an important role in his resounding success as the King of Nevada, Louisiana and Arkansas.

Tonight, however, Breandan's typically smooth voice was loud and less melodic. It utterly overpowered Felipe's smooth and gentlemanly cadence. A heaviness fell over the room the moment Breandan began speaking. Even Felipe's eyes glazed over. Eric and Breandan seemed unaffected by the sudden change in the room's atmosphere. At least, Eric thought he was unaffected. _What the Hell_? he asked silently. He had known Breandan was very powerful, but this was something else entirely. His senses went on high alert.

As Breandan spoke, explaining why giving Eric leave (and free rein) would benefit the Council's interests, the other members nodded gently, as if deep in thought. Occasionally, a council member would "hmmm" or "ahhh" where it was appropriate to do so. None of them sought to respond to Breandan's claims or otherwise refute them. Eric felt for all the world that he was watching a room full of string-led puppets dance to Breandan's hypnotic tune. _The pied-piper of the supernatural world_, Eric quipped to himself. Breandan looked slightly uncomfortable, and Eric thought his gaze flicked in his direction. _Did he hear me_? Eric wondered incredulously. Breandan looked normal once again, and Eric felt uneasy.

Eric gazed around the room at the council members, each one transfixed on some unknown point. The table at which they all sat was oval. Etched on the face of the table were symbolic points reaching out toward the head representative of each supernatural sect. The representatives were wearing velvet "ceremonial' robes—Eric could not fathom from what ceremony they'd borrowed this style of robe. Each head was topped with something like a bishop's miter. Eric thought they all looked pompous and ridiculous. In fact, he thought the entire Council was pretty much the same.

He wondered how he had gotten there. How had he let himself get pulled into a public position at the center of a pretentious and visible governing body when all he ever wanted was to have something that was _his_; a place to cultivate and protect. He had enjoyed the rush of dabbling in vampire politics, and he undoubtedly enjoyed the admiration. But, as he looked around the room he thought, _This is too much. Too messy and complicated. It will fall apart, and if I'm not careful, I will fall right with it._

Almost immediately after he thought that, Breandan stopped talking, and the oppressive and hypnotic energy that had pervaded the room's air supply vanished. The most powerful supernaturals in the country sat at the rectangular table with dumbfounded and confused expressions on their faces. Felipe and Sir Teribica, the Demon Chancellor from Vermont, recovered first. "Yes, yes, Northman," Teribica fumbled, "that is a fine plan. A fine plan. Take your time indeed. Indeed." He was silent again and looking timid and uncertain despite his austere regalia. His small, black and perfectly circular eyes seemed to bulge from his oddly shaped head.

Felipe spoke next, and with greater poise, "Secretary, if my recollection is correct, that concludes the "Open Business" section of the agenda, and sunrise is a mere 15 minutes away . . . ."

Slowly, the other Council members began to speak up with greater strength and certainty. It was as if a dense cloud of fog had rolled over and from the room. A few members were calling for early adjournment, and Eric voiced his support. Sir Teribica, in a move to gain control over the group, motioned for silence. "Ladies, gentlemen, and things, we have had a strange and trying night. The Supernatural Community and this Council have a difficult and uncertain period before us. We will triumph as always, however, and we will be stronger for it." The demon paused and took a sip of his elixir nectar. "We have a solid plan. Northman will take a leave of absence from this Council, with Breandan as his liaison between us. The value of the information he will gather as to the fairy prince's whereabouts and the recent disturbances will far outweigh the difficulties his absence will create. This is the Word of the Council. All depart."

A clatter arose around them as Eric and Breandan slipped past the commotion and through the heavy wooden doors. Breandan's footsteps created no sound, but Eric could sense the fairy's presence close behind him. "I'll consider it," Eric hissed without so much as a backward glance.

"Excellent," Breandan replied. "Where would you like to meet?"

"I'll have my second communicate a meeting location to you in a day or so," Eric whispered with a cautionary tone. This was not the place to discuss such sensitive matters, and Breandan knew it. The fairy's arrogance and cavalier attitude again set off warning bells in his mind. _Careless_, he thought, _or scheming_.

"_You worry too much_," Breandan's voice soothed inside Eric's head, and he nearly stopped short. "_I need your help. You need mine. Why would I betray your trust?_"

"Hmmph," was Eric's only response. _You assume too much, fairy. You have not yet earned my trust, _he thought. He turned to face the fairy as he opened the door to the windowless room that was to be his day lodging. "You are a fairy. You are devious. And you have nothing but contempt for vampires and humans." He paused. "In short, I have no reason to trust you."

"We've worked together in the past. . . ." Breandan protested.

"And, we have worked against each other as well."

"Sookie eventually trusted me."

"Yes, Sookie is prone to doing _that_, even when it is not in her best interests. . . . However, it _is _the only reason I'd consider working with you at this point."

The hallway in which they were standing seemed empty besides the vampire and the fairy, but both could sense other presences. As if sensing those other presences, Breandan again pushed himself into Eric's consciousness. "_It is not the only reason. I am the only one who knows Niall well enough to buy you the time you need. You know this. You understand the __how__, but you need to understand the __why__, as Sookie did. I can give you this._"

Eric sighed. Breandan was nothing if not persistent. Instead of speaking, he pivoted nonchalantly to face the eager fairy. He decided it was time to experiment. _Can you always read my mind?_ Eric questioned Breandan without using words.

Breandan looked pleased and slowly shook his head. His unusual golden eyes glinted despite the shadowy darkness of the dimly lit hallway. _Only when you want me to hear. You . . . how do I say it . . . transmit . . . the thoughts into my brain. It is a very unusual talent, Northman, very few have mastered._

_Good_, thought Eric. _This will come in useful_. And so Eric began speaking aloud; he mundanely droned about the trivialities of the night's meeting. Internally, he harnessed the thoughts he wished to communicate to Breandan. _I have agreed to meet with you. I am eager to hear this theory of yours, and anxious to know how you will be able to help me find Sookie. Perhaps more importantly, I am eager to hear your _in-depth_ explanation of why I should trust you with my bonded's location should I find it._

"Yes, yes, I too appreciated De Castro's plan for diplomacy with the rogue Alabama Werewolves." _Excellent. _Breandan's voice flitted into Eric's consciousness behind the drone of his small talk. For a moment, Eric sensed a hint of irritation that was quickly overshadowed by a veil of pleasant amusement. _ I shall contact your second on the third night. We will arrange a suitable meeting location. From there . . . I suppose we shall say, as the humans do, we will "_play it by ear._"_

With that declaration, Breandan turned on his 19th century-styled heel, robes rustling behind, and turned down the hallway without saying anything further. Eric worked to clear his mind as he watched the fairy disappear into the shifting shadows. Once Breandan was out of his sight, he used his unique key to unlock the door to his day shelter and disappeared into its promising blackness. He could feel the weight of the oncoming dawn as it pressed relentlessly against his consciousness. His limbs struggled to arrange themselves comfortably on the large, colonial style bed. Once swathed in the light-shunning protection of the blackout curtains and bed linens, he let instinct and the darkness take him.

* * * *

"Eric, I'm scared," she whispered. He pulled his lips back from the warmth of her neck, shaken to his core. He could not remember the last time he'd experienced that intensity of fear and guilt. For a brief moment, he had thought it was _her_. She had uttered those words to him in a private whisper. She had stood no more than two inches from him in Bill's study after a difficult meeting fraught with many disagreements; her luscious scent cascading into his nostrils and causing his internal predator to roar with unsatisfied bloodlust. "Eric. I'm scared."

She had said the words with such brave matter-of-fact certainty. There was no question about what she was going to do; no question about whether or not she could do what was needed. There had been only the humanity of fear. When Eric shook his consciousness free of the memory, his eyes focused on the pretty, round face in front of his. This was not his bonded. This was not his brave Sookie. Irritation flared, and his fangs extended.

"Are you changing your mind?" he asked with a bit more hostility than he intended. He needed this Were. He needed her to help track down his bonded. Damn her! "I must know now whether you intend to renege on your end of the bargain."

He smelled her rising fear as she began to perspire. "N-no," she said haltingly. He quirked a doubtful blond eyebrow at her and met her tear-rimmed brown eyes. She held his gaze and with a firm, even voice and said, "No."

"You're certain," the last syllable of "certain" pitched upward in a questioning tone. His irritation faded with the clarity of his memories. There was urgency, but not insurmountable urgency. _You do not _need_ the Were_, he reminded himself. _At least, you do not need her as a vampire to accomplish your goal_, he reasoned with himself in order to keep from losing his temper.

"I'm certain," she whispered. "I just want to know . . . will it hurt?"

"Tonight? No," he replied.

She heaved a relieved sigh. "Good," she whispered, nearly choking on her words. "On the count of three, then?"

He nodded, and she began counting. "One-" she breathed. "Lean back," he interrupted gently, guiding her backward on the blood red and gold damask blanket. "Okay," she said. "I'm going to count now. I'm ready. I'm ready." He waited silently for her to begin the count.

"One," she said, her word barely a whisper as her chest heaved in anticipation. "Two," her hands shook as they encircled his shoulders. He ran his tongue over her throat and the artery concealed within. Her entire body trembled. He opened his mouth against her neck, and before her quavering voice could say anything, he drove his fangs deep into her soft skin. Fiona's gasp sparked his bloodlust, and he drank deeply.

The first gulps of blood hit his system, and a wave of Euphoria crested over him. His mind filled with blurred scenes of his humanity; fighting barefoot and famished in ragged clothes on blood-soaked hills covered with long green-brown grasses swaying in the night breeze. Through the fog, he felt a distant, old pain. The cold soaked through the back of his torn clothes—worn leathers, furs, and rough handmade fabrics. He was damp, breathing raggedly as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

Voices filtered in and out of his consciousness as he heard the shouts of villagers seeking out fallen loved ones or the salvageable injured. The great blue-black sky dotted with flickering stars faded in and out of his sight as he struggled to keep his blood and tear crusted eyes from shutting. His abdomen felt exposed and raw. The sting of the frigid night air seemed to penetrate the inner layers of his skin. He knew he was dying. Life slipped out of him with every diminishing breath.

As he lay struggling to breathe in the crisp autumn air of an unfamiliar land, he wondered if this was really the end for him. As a warrior of some importance, he had expected to die on the field of battle. Some part of his subconscious grew peaceful in acceptance of this noble warrior's fate even as his physical body clung to its last fleeting moments of life.

For a moment, he was back in his dimly lit room with Fiona clinging to his arms. Her fingernails dug into his upper arms, and she was moaning softly and rubbing against him. "Don't stop," she whispered, "please just don't stop."

His mouth was still on her neck, and he could taste the delicate salty undertones even though he had stopped pulling at the small puncture wounds. He breathed heavily as a reflex to the intensity of the vision. The reality of what he was doing hit him hard—harder than it had in the past. But then, each turn and child was different. He had expected that. What he had not expected was the intensity. Whether this effect was due to Eric's age or the conversion of a Were to a vampire, he did not know. He found the question mildly interesting, but it was a question for a later time. Now, he needed to finish what he had started.

"How do you feel?" he rumbled from Fiona's neck.

Fiona took a few breaths before answering. "I'm okay." A few more breaths. "A little w-weak, though." Her face was looking paler than it had moments before.

"You will feel much weaker in a moment," he said gently, stroking the side of her head. "You will feel the life literally draining out of you." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "You will feel like you are dying. Do not panic, do not fight me. It will make it more difficult for you."

This was not the first time he had created another vampire, but it was the first time he'd given this explanation. It was the first time a child of his was being made voluntarily. That he had survived to see the day he could legally create a vampire and humans were volunteering to be turned . . . well, it was beyond any of the words he had accumulated in his long life.

"Okay," she said. "Please, just keep going." She moved one hand from his shoulder to his head, and tried to press his face into her neck—as if she could. She reclined her head back farther to the point where her skin was taught.

He pressed his own face closer to her neck, a few inches from the previous bite mark. He followed the same procedure of running his tongue softly down the length of her skin. Her sharp inhale and sudden tensing of her body reignited his bloodlust. His body pitched into another wave of Euphoria as her warm blood coursed from her veins into his body. Her flowery scent and soft skin filled his senses. Warmth coated his insides, and he was lost.

Eric's vision once again clouded over; he was no longer staring at the peach-white of Fiona's neck. That sight was replaced by the flickering and fading night sky of the battlefield he'd left behind in the deeply buried memories of his humanity. He remembered admiring the vast beauty and majesty of the night sky and how he hoped to see such magnificent sights in his approaching afterlife.

As he finished what he believed were his final thoughts, he heard nothing . . . not the voices nor footsteps of the villagers; not the wind rustling the grass and trees. He did not hear the sounds of birds or other night animals. All he heard was unearthly silence. He held his breath and tensed with fear. It was that kind of silence; an empty, pervasive silence that sent a quiet, shivering warning through what was left of his body and soul. He longed to crane his neck and check for signs of life in the vicinity.

He found he could not move his neck—not even a centimeter. He waited tensely for some sign of movement or life. No more than a few seconds passed before the cause of the silence made its way to Eric's line of sight.

Where the inky blue-black and star-dotted sky had once filled his vision, the face of a fine-featured woman with blue-green eyes, bone white skin, and stringy, tousled strawberry blond hair appeared. She spoke in a language he had not understood at the time. Finally, after trying what sounded like multiple languages, she asked him a question he could understand. "Blink if you are a soldier, boy." Her voice had been hoarse and raspy, but distinctly feminine. He could not resist it though he had a strong sense that she was the enemy. He blinked. It was not the whole truth, but it would suffice.

She nodded and asked, "Are you important to your people?" He hesitated before blinking. He guessed that his eyes had said enough, however, because her brow furrowed, and she seemed to curse in her own language. Finally, she said to him, "you are dying. You haven't much time. I am hungry, and you are the only one worth tasting." He had felt the fear bubble up to a fever pitch. She seemed earnest, and suddenly far more dangerous than any armed soldier. He began blinking rapidly, trying to muster the energy to move away from the woman.

She placed a hand over his chest and leaned her face close to the side of his. She smelled clean an dry despite her dirty appearance. She did not smell human either—there was no scent of perspiration or saliva. His heart pounded painfully in his chest as if in a fear of its own. "Do no be afraid my brave handsome warrior. I will take good care of you, but you must never go back. Whatever life you had before this, it is over." Then everything went black.

That night and her words had been his last human memory. As he finished raining the Were girl to nearly her last few drops of blood and life, he allowed himself to realize he was now Fiona's last human memory. With this thought, and all the intention of restoring life, he slid his fangs deep into his own wrist and held it to her parched lips.

"Drink Fiona, drink. Drink and live."

_TBC . . . ._


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: [EPOV]: _Hi all! I'm back . . . again. As I explained to my lovelies on the boards, I keep having these delusions that this month or that month will be chill with plenty of time to read and write . . . well, not so much. Also, as I'd explained previously, I sort of lost my muse for a time (particularly for anything Sookie), and stopped writing to make sure that I was not producing uninteresting garbage. So, with the release of the tenth book, I'm feeling a bit revived. This chapter is sort of a transition back into the story—for me and my readers. It is short and to the point with some important details revealed, but the next chapter is probably the more important one and this chapter builds into it. So, please enjoy or wait until the next chapter is posted before reading this if you like continuity. _

_As always, all rights to the SVM series belong to Charlaine Harris. I am merely experimenting with her characters and universe. Thanks for reading . . . . _

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The sound was distant, faint and probably no less than a mile away. To a human, it would have been a ghost—imperceptible and fleeting. To Eric, it was an unwanted visitor. He flew quickly and silently to another part of the woods, placing ten arbitrary feet of distance between his presence and the place where he had buried the turning Fiona.

"Eric," he heard Pam's whisper-light voice from within the shadows.

"Pam," his voice was part question, part warning. He had purposefully withheld from her his whereabouts. He wanted no visitors and intended to keep Fiona's existence secret as long as he felt it was necessary. It was alarming that she had been able to track him there.

Pam's face appeared, pale and serious in the darkness. She was clad in head-to-toe black, her light blond hair pulled tight in a bun at the base of her skull. "You look like you stepped out of one of those movies about spies the humans enjoy so much."

She rolled her eyes. "I did not want to be followed . . . ."

"Good," he cut her off, "but how did you know where to find me?" He turned a penetrating gaze in her direction. She swiftly looked down.

"This is where you told me to go should I decide to . . . reproduce . . ." she trailed off.

"Yes, but how did you . . ."

"Breandan came to see me." She spit the words rapidly, with a tinge of irritation. "He certainly has a high opinion of himself," she finished with a sneer.

Eric allowed a small chuckle to escape at this last. "That he does, but why did he approach you?"

"He needs our help, of course," she exhaled sharply. "I've done some very discreet asking around. There are a few interesting rumors circulating right now. Of course, it is impossible to know what is true because these rumors involve the fae, and we know . . ."

"Yes, secretiveness is their _stock in trade_," he said with amusement, pleased with his use of the phrase he had heard in a movie about corporate intrigue.

"Under other circumstances, you know, I think your humor and your personal enjoyment of your own humor are entertaining, but . . . ." She paused.

"Yes?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. Having known Pam for so many years, he had developed an intuitive sense of her moods. In most instances, it was obvious to him when she was worried, happy, or any other number of emotions she felt on a daily basis. Tonight, he sensed her tension. She had what she perceived was very bad news for him. He could only hope it was the news he already knew. He had neither the time nor patience to deal with another distraction.

"I have something to tell you," she said finally, her eyes burning holes into the ground below them. "Eric, you are not going to like this." He waited silently for her to continue. "Breandan somehow knows that you have turned this new vampire. He believes you have done so in your quest to find Sookie."

Relief mingled with the irritation that was dancing around in the recesses of his mind. "This I know. I'm sure only Breandan has this information. What of the rumors?" He prodded her on hastily.

Pam eyed him with some surprise. "It is true. This I heard from Breandan himself. The other . . . well, the other information, the rumors, is of far greater concern." She paused and took a deep breath even though she had no need of the oxygen. "According to my sources, Niall and Breandan are in a race to find Sookie. It goes back to the uprising." Eric waited with tension shooting through every inch of his being. Anticipation crept over his skin like prickling waves of ants. He could sense he was about to learn more in two seconds of Pam's talking than he had in five years of contemplation and searching. "Niall thinks that she is some new prototype human-fairy, and . . . ." she trailed off.

"And?" he encouraged. He could feel Fiona beginning to stir beneath the damp night earth. He could feel her confusion, hunger, and desire. She was slowly beginning to wriggle her fingers and toes; trying to comprehend their existence and the soft material that encased them. Whatever Pam needed to tell him, she needed to do it soon. If he knew Breandan, the fairy would not be far behind.

"And, there is some ridiculous fairy prophecy stating that 'a great human with fairy blood would be born. She will live during a time of great strife and find herself at the Crossroads between men and beasts. She will possess the ability to see into the hearts and minds of men and other. Her power will grow and will eventually determine the fate of the supernatural world.' Supposedly, it is to the benefit of those who seek peace and equality among the species, but apparently this translation is sketchy."

"A prophecy?" Eric repeated with irritation. "Those idiot fairies are destroying the supernatural world and trying to destroy my bonded because of a damned prophecy?!"

"Well," Pam responded, "the other interpretation of the last part of the prophecy is roughly, 'He who controls the soul-reader, controls the fate of the fairy race and the supernatural world.'" She shrugged. "You know the fairies . . . ."

Eric's temper flared. "Out of all the ridiculous . . ." His voice caught in his throat when he felt Fiona's panic. He stiffened. "She is waking. We will deal with this later."

"I do not understand, Eric," Pam said while struggling to keep up with his rapid pace. "When Breandan informed me that he knew about your turning another vampire, I could hardly believe it. Why now? Why would you further complicate things? It is so unlike you."

Eric could hear the rising doubt and irritation in her tone. Pam was nearly as savvy, politically, as he. She knew her ability to survive was directly connected to his. "Everything will be fine, Pam. I believe your new sister will lead us to my bonded," he whispered in Old Norse so low that no one besides the vampires would hear. She sighed in temporary defeat.

They hovered silently and expectantly over the disheveled earth where Fiona lay buried and waking. "You know I have faith in you, Eric, but I hope you know what you're doing," she said, while staring down at the dirt-streaked white fingers protruding from the disturbed earth.

"She knows her, Pam," he said. "The night I decided to turn her . . . she said Sookie sent her to me."

"How do you know for sure?" she asked. "How do you know she was being truthful and that she wasn't sent here by Breandan, or Niall, even?"

This was something he had considered and dismissed. "I do not believe so," he retorted as a second fist punched its way through the crumbling brown. "First, Breandan is too clever. He would devise a plan with a greater potential for success. Niall is too arrogant. He believes he is best able to accomplish his goals. He would not trust anyone beyond his small circle of close confidantes who have sworn oaths of loyalty to him. This girl is a Were; too risky."

Pam was nodding, but did not say anything. She was watching the ground intently. Never having created a vampire child of her own, she was fascinated by others' attempts to create new vampires. "Should we pull her out?" she asked as the girl's forearms flailed limply in the cool night air.

"No, it is not necessary. She needs to develop independence from a young age," Eric instructed. "You remember from your own first night as a vampire, do you not?"

"Yes," she hissed. "I was frightened. It was one of the few times I have been frightened in my entire existence. Vampire and human." There was a raw intensity to her tone, and he could sense she was reliving her vampire birth.

After a few additional moments of feeble struggle, the newly born vampire pushed her head and upper body through the dirt. "I never knew that," he said. Pam shrugged and said simply, "You don't know everything about me."

_TBC_ . . . .


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: _Eric POV_: _Well, I've managed it . . . two chappies in the course of a week! I think that's a second-best for me (I think I did it once before). Anyhow, thanks always to HopeStreet for taking time out of her extremely busy schedule to look at this. I really appreciate it. Especially because no matter how many chapters I write, I always FUBAR quotations/quotation capitalization, and Hope patiently fixes them all. *forehead-palm*_

_Chapter 17 is out for Beta and should be up shortly. Additionally, Chapter 18 is nearly complete and will be sent out for review soon. Thanks everyone for sticking with this story, I think we're getting there . . . ;-) (Three guesses where "there" is)_

_As usual, all rights belong to Charlaine Harris. I'm just shakin' it up a bit. _

_Last, don't forget to check out the Dead Pan Contest. See my profile for the link, then . . . READ & REVIEW . . . NOW! ;-)_

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"What the hell?" Fiona grumbled in between hoarse coughs and dirt-filled expectoration. "What am I doing in the fucking ground!"

"Don't tell me you forgot to tell her, Eric," Breandan's amused voice traveled over the small clearing from among a cluster of Oaks. He emerged slowly, tasting the atmosphere for possible welcome or danger.

Fiona's nose drew in a sharp sniff. Her pupils dilated and fangs extended. "What is that," she asked hungrily as she eyed the now-still fairy. "It smells positively delicious," she purred seductively. "Is it for me?" she asked coyly as she began frantically shoveling the remaining dirt away from her lap in an attempt to free herself.

"It would appear our fairy friend, Breandan, has decided to pay us a visit . . . without concealing his fairy scent." Eric took in a long, exaggerated breath. "And, what an intoxicating scent that is, is not Fiona?" he asked wryly. "Mmmmm," Fiona moaned in reply.

"Calm your vampire, Eric," Breandan growled. "I will destroy her if necessary."

"Relax, Breandan," came Eric's caustic reply, "Your fear does not suit you. You know I have control over my vampires." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Fiona, you will not attack the irritating fairy." His voice was firm, but soft and hypnotic.

Fiona sighed in disgust but relented. "Whatever you say," she grumbled. She was nearly free from the ground, but was covered with so much dirt she appeared to be a fixture of the ground itself. Despite the fear, tension, and hunger Eric sensed from her, Fiona seemed to be taking in the world and her new situation with relaxed efficiency—that is, when she was not eyeing the fairy as if he were a large steak cut specifically to her vampire tastes.

"See," Eric proclaimed to Breandan with a hint of taunting. "I think it is Pam you should fear more than our young vampire. She likes you less than I do, and she is far less patient than I am." Pam smirked; Breandan frowned. "She is far less obedient, too."

For ten seconds or so, no one said a word. Breandan considered the threat and remained on the other side of the clearing. Fiona had removed herself from her temporary grave and was brushing away as much soil from her person and clothes as she possibly could. Night sounds echoed in the creatures' amplified hearing. Tension mounted while Eric, Pam, and Breandan remained mute. Minutes passed during the silent standoff.

"This is ridiculous!" Fiona cried, breaking the silence. "I'm hungry, and you guys are just standing there! Can someone please get me something to eat . . . er . . . drink? Smelling him is like smelling a big, juicy hamburger with three strips of bacon, mushrooms, and melted cheese on a big thick bun. Except, I'm not allowed to eat the hamburger. And I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks. So, imagine the temptation," she concluded her diatribe, her voice raw with need and frustration.

"Silence," Eric hissed. "Do you hear that?"

Breandan disappeared into the woods, and Pam hissed to Eric, "We should go."

"I agree." He turned his head to the cluster of oaks. "If you're still out there, meet at my sometimes residence. If you're as cunning as you proclaim to be, you should know how to find it." He then whispered to Pam in Old Norse, "I will take her and fly out of here. Go as fast as you can to the club and then to the front residence. We will meet you there in two hours. Make certain no one follows you."

She dipped her head and darted off at lightening fast speed. He watched her with pride. She was not as quick as he, but she was close. There were few that could match her quickness and stealth. It would always be a source of pride for him. He turned his attention to the frightened new vampire. "We must leave," he said. "Take my hand and hold tight to my body." He held out his hand, translucent in the moonlight.

"Okay," she whispered uncertainly, "but I don't feel so good. I'm hungry, and everything is so loud. I keep smelling all of these strange things . . . and, I'm so hungry."

"Shhh," he hushed her. "I understand, but we'll discuss these things later. We must go." He took her outstretched hand and with a quick, single movement flung her around over his shoulder and back and launched from the ground into the sky.

As they rose above the tree line, in a matter of milliseconds, he saw a dark shape emerge at a rapid pace from another cluster of trees at the far end of the nearby clearing and run toward the unearthed grave. At their distance, it was impossible, even for his acute vampire eyesight, to see the figure in any detail. As he drifted away, however, he could have sworn the figure bent over the ground for several seconds. "Who was that?" Fiona asked nervously.

"I have no idea," Eric said as they drifted through the empty night sky.

"Does it matter?" she asked.

"Probably," he replied, "but it is not something to worry about now." He paused. "Right now, we need to feed you, meet with Pam and Breandan, and execute a plan."

"What sort of a plan?" she asked.

"I will tell you when we are all together."

"Do I have a part in this plan?"

"Of course."

She sighed. "I have a feeling I'm not going to like this." He said nothing, and she continued. "Actually, I have a feeling I'm not going to like this at all. It's going to be dangerous, isn't it?"

"Most likely," he said, straining to keep the irritation from his voice. "If you desired a life without danger, you should have become an independent shapeshifter in a town with no supernatural beings. Not a damn vampire."

"I had no idea it was going to be dangerous," she whispered into his ear. "That is why I became a vampire. I thought I would become a vampire, stop being a stupid werewolf in a pack hierarchy, and live peacefully . . . forever. Surely, there are some peaceful vampires? Without the pack hierarchy and all . . . ." Her voice trailed off as if in disbelieving thought. Eric wondered how his bonded would have responded to this admission of foolish naivety. He wondered how she could have told this ignorant young fool to seek _his _help with becoming a vampire. He reminded himself to ask Fiona about this later.

If he were not so distracted, Eric might actually blame himself for her misunderstanding of vampire life. In the "old times" when he had made Pam, vampires were the scourge of society, and secrecy was a requirement of the highest order. Making a vampire was a clandestine attack with no explanation, no remorse. But that was then, and this was now. People wanted to be vampires; being a vampire was "cool," or so people thought. He had read articles in vampire-run newspapers about the potential pitfalls of failing to properly educate new vampires. One such example was a young vampire who, so disillusioned with his new vampire life that he was clinically diagnosed with "vampire depression," went on a killing spree that included his entire human family, a number of his former friends, and several strangers.

Needless to say, the rogue vampire had been dispatched and his maker punished. The entire affair had been a publicity nightmare for the vampire community. After the internal warring that had spilled over into the human community, required human military intervention, and had cost countless supernatural and human lives, the supernatural community was on the defensive, always clearing its sullied name. The precarious supernatural/human relationship always hung as if on the edge of a knife. During the struggles humans had, as they are so prone to do, fashioned many weapons capable of efficiently and violently destroying large numbers of supernatural creatures. He had watched an entire line of enemy vampires thoroughly incinerated by an opposing line of human-operated flame-throwers. He had been thankful he was on the side with the firepower as the awe-inspiring display of strength and weaponry had frightened even him.

Such was the importance of caution, and the reason for the feeling of self-disappointment and irritation creeping up his spine and into his psyche. He would not allow his own carelessness to jeopardize his plan. He would not permit his impatience to create the types of unintended consequences that could destroy the very things he was impatient to accomplish.

When he felt he had put enough distance between them and the shadowy figure in the clearing, he lowered into a cluster of bushes in a large suburban yard. "Ouch!" Fiona cried as thorns yanked at her clothes and bare skin.

"Stop complaining. It does not hurt." Eric chastised her.

"But, it does," she argued, "in a way." He flashed her a look. "Seriously!" she cried. "It doesn't hurt in the traditional sense, but it irritates my skin. It's like my skin knows the thorns are supposed to hurt and is responding to it. It doesn't hurt as much as when I was alive . . . ." She paused as she said this last, and a look of sadness bordering on regret crept over her face. "I'm not alive anymore, am I?" she whispered questioningly and watched suspiciously as the reddened skin where the thorns had drawn blood on her arm turned a light peach and then white.

"Of course not," he said briskly. "Do not be sentimental. You will get over your human concept of life fast enough. We have much more important matters to discuss – matters that will be of greater consequence to you in your new life. You must understand them completely or you will not survive."

A blood red tear slipped from her eye. "Can I not even mourn the passing of my life?" she asked with a shaky voice.

"You had a few days to do that if I recall, so, no." Eric took a moment to survey their surroundings with his hearing and senses. All around them, the night had gone quiet. Even very small insects were camouflaging themselves among the particles of dirt and blades of grass. "You must understand that you are not dead. You are _un_dead. You live but you do not breathe, and you may yet still die. No one lives forever; not even I. I have lived for a thousand years and more, yet every night I wake with a faint mortal fear of death."

"You make it sound so horrible," Fiona whispered, tracing the tip of her forefinger up and down the vein running along the inside of her forearm. "My veins are still bluish. How am I dead if I still have blood?"

Eric sighed. For the first time since he had changed her, Eric felt a pang of guardianship and obligation. Explaining the nature of vampires was something he loathed doing. His maker had existed as a vampire in the very ancient times of pharaohs and pyramids. He had fled the sun and heat of the Nile for the longer nights of the Barbarian North. It was a time when legends were created and even _he_ had known only lore.

"The magic of our kind is mysterious, and somewhat unknown. Someday very soon, we will have a long talk, you and I. We may discuss the nature of our existence and its place in this world. You deserve this," he paused, "and you probably deserve to know it now . . . ."

"But," she interjected. Her expression was intense and almost angry. Her new vampire emotions were running strong, and he could sense her self-control slipping.

"But, this is not a good time. You saw that we are being followed and that times are dangerous. If I am to give you a satisfactory introduction to your kind's history, I will need time and quiet. I ask for your patience in this." He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she bowed her head. She was silent for some time, and when she looked up, her cheeks were streaked with red. Her features, however, were set in resolute lines. "Alright," she said. "We will go where we need to go and do what we need to do to make our lives quiet to the point where I can learn things. I have to know."

He nodded once and held out his hand for her. Without a word, she placed a hand in his and stood on the top of his foot. They launched into the air in the direction of Eric's semi-private safehouse where they were to meet Pam and Breandan. It irked him that Breandan would meet Fiona, but there was little to be done about it now. "Why did we land?" Fiona asked.

"Because I was exhausted," Eric said plainly and honestly. It was the truth. His limbs felt like iron beams strapped to a feather torso. Fiona was a steel yoke strapped to his aching neck.

"I thought vampires weren't supposed to get tired," she said.

"That's true, in a way" he said. "But, we get exhausted; more so as we get older. It is not a true physical exhaustion, but a mental one. You live for generations, the world changes while you stay the same, many of your kind are savages and so much of your life becomes savagery; everything is a battle for survival . . . but without much reason to survive." He thought of how to finish the explanation.

Explaining to a young vampire the intricacies of a life that is too long for introspection yet too uncertain for frivolity and levity seemed like a futile endeavor. The vitality of the blood and magic coursing through a new vampire's newly revived body carried the effect of pure electric energy. He still remembered the feeling: Every sensation so powerful and filled with life that it became easy to believe the hype of vampire immortality and superiority. _Far too easy_, he thought to himself and hoped he would not let that hubris get the better of him in his search.

"And a word of warning," he said to her as they rose up to flying height, "do not speak a word, do not mention Sookie Stackhouse, and use your concentration to focus on as many mundane things as possible."

"Why?" she asked.

"As a young vampire, your job is to do. It is not to question the advice of your maker or other superior vampires. This is your second lesson of the day." With that admonishment, the two vampires flew below the misty clouds in thoughtful silence over the darkened, tree-spotted landscape.

"I need to be included in these things, Eric," Breandan spat bitterly. "The outcome of these events is integral to the survival of my people!"

"So you say," Eric calmly responded. "However, the outcome of these events also is integral to the survival of _my _people, and Sookie's very life." _I have no reason to trust you, Breandan_, Eric communicated to the fairy with his mind.

_You have no reason to distrust me either_, Breandan replied. _We share the same goal: finding Sookie to keep her from Niall; to keep her from harm_. Eric observed there was a touch of pleading mixed with frustration in his inner voice.

"You are fae. You are automatically untrustworthy because of this," Eric explained, meeting Breandan's golden eyes. He could sense Pam's unease, but she stood calmly behind him at his side. Fiona stood silently behind Pam. Her hunger for the fairy's blood was strong even though he was cloaking his scent, and despite her earlier attempt at drinking a bottle of True Blood. Eric knew keeping her in the fairy's presence without her first feed was a gamble, but there simply was no time to waste.

"The only way I will even consider working with you is if you tell me why you visited Sookie before the war of the species and what you said to her that caused her to go into hiding." Eric thought this sounded like a reasonable request and expected Breandan might indulge him.

The fairy sat thoughtfully quiet for a moment, a quizzical expression on his face. _I will tell you_, he thought, _perhaps against my better judgment. However, in the interest of facilitating cooperation, I will tell you everything I told your bonded. When the time comes for your choice as to whether or not to betray me, remember this day and what I tell you. Let your superior instincts guide you because Sookie will need your judgment when deciding where her loyalties lie._

Eric sensed that he should have been alarmed, that he should have perceived a greater problem was lurking on the horizon. A small corner of his brain told him to walk away from the meeting, from the fairy, and from the entire situation. A whisper rolled forth telling him, "_Let her find you_." There was good reason to believe the fairy was the enemy, and if not _the _enemy, _an _enemy. He knew what Pam would say. He knew what he would tell another vampire in his situation were they to seek his guidance. Yet he already knew he was going to go through with this. In his mind, he had already committed to this search, to his alliance with Breandan, and to his choice to let things take their course once he found his bonded. He need only find a way to turn the alliance and supernatural discord in his favor.

"If those terms are acceptable to you," he continued, "I will keep you informed of my progress in the search and shield her from Niall as long as is necessary."

After a calculated pause, Breandan smiled. "I believe those terms are acceptable, and you have my word that I will be forthcoming about fairy troubles and Sookie's role in everything. Be warned that this knowledge will involve you in something very old and very violent."

"I'm not concerned about fairy intrigue. What your kind does amongst itself is not my concern. I am interested only to the extent it involves Sookie Stackhouse. You can trust when I say that any decision I make or action I take will be to the sole benefit of my people and my area, and Sookie Stackhouse. I am not your ally." Eric knew Breandan already understood his intentions, but such was the way of fairy deal-making – that agreements and alliances must be verbalized in carefully chosen words.

"As you will," Breandan responded. "I will tell you where this began."

At this, the three vampires stiffened with anticipation. Thus far, Fiona had adhered to her maker's warning and kept silent and still. It appeared, to Eric at least, Breandan did not suspect Fiona's acquaintance with Sookie. Eric could feel Fiona's anticipation and was concerned she might betray her knowledge through her emotions. Still, he knew he could count on Pam to keep her under control. If not, well . . . .

"Much of fairy lore is no more than fanciful legend. We do not consider ourselves human. We consider ourselves created of magic. In reality, our scientists have determined that there are certain similarities with humans, and we have tried to explain that through both myth and science. Unfortunately, these myths have fostered many conflicts among our peoples. They have led to legends and prophecies, and false beliefs in the superiority of one race of fae over another."

The three vampires sat rapt with interest. To hear the history of the fairy race from the mouth of an ancient and powerful fairy was a potent, almost forbidden, experience. It was highly suspicious, as the fairies were known to guard their secrets with spells and violence, but intoxicating all the same.

"There was one particular tale . . . some might call it a prophecy, though it was not spoken by a prophet . . . told by an ancient wisewoman of the fae. It called for a great battle among the species. The battle was referred to by the wisewoman as The Great Cleansing. It was thought that the battle among the fae would spill over into the greater universe—supernatural and human alike—and result in massive bloodshed. It would usher in a new world of peaceful living among fairy clans . . ."

"But, what about others?" Fiona interrupted. The fairy's eyes flickered with annoyance and then settled on the young vampire. His gaze was penetrating but curious, interested. Through his irritation at Fiona's disregard of his warning, Eric had the vague sense the fairy was appraising Fiona. He had the vague notion that Breandan was considering possible reasons for Fiona's creation—at this particular time. Eric concentrated on keeping his thoughts to himself and drawing the fairy's attention away from the new, foolish vampire. He could sense Pam pressing her finger into Fiona's palm in a warning.

"Pardon the interruption, Breandan," Eric interceded. "As you witnessed earlier, Fiona is new among us and has yet to learn respect for her elders. Trust that this lesson will be made _abundantly_ clear. However, the point Fiona has raised is of interest to . . . us. What did the so-called prophecy foretell regarding the fate of other supernatural species?"

Breandan's gaze lingered over Fiona for a moment, and Eric could feel Fiona's fear as she shifted uncomfortably behind Pam. She was yet too young to conceal her strong emotions, and her Were heritage would make such control even more difficult to attain. The fairy began speaking before moving his gaze away from Fiona's downturned face. "That, Northman, is less certain," he said. "You see, this _wisewoman_ was intoxicated from honeysuckle nectar at the time she relayed this message to Eogan, son of Owain. Beyond this, Eogan had purposefully fed her the intoxicating nectar in order to obtain the prophecy as he believed it would allow him to start a war against a rival fairy clan."

"Much to his chagrin, however, the prophecy spoke of times much in the future and was thus confusing and garbled to the young fairy prince. He was confused by its message regarding a young human of mixed fairy blood heritage that _may _yet be born." He paused as if to think. "When I read the text wherein Eogan recorded his recollection of the prophecy, he remarked that because it was set in a time so far in the distant future, much of it made little sense. He recalled that the involvement of this human-born fae would yield an unpredictable result depending upon whose side she chose." At this, Breandan stopped speaking and took in his surroundings.

Eric's front residence was simple yet elegant. The office in which they were meeting was sparsely furnished and decorated, with little more than a cherry desk and two armchairs upholstered with elegant, traditional fabrics. The walls were a light beige, accented with framed pieces of aged parchments and maps. The maps were of Europe in the middle ages. The floors were a warm, spicy oak covered with an aged, traditional Persian rug. "Though you've attempted to downplay the elegance of the room, the discerning eye will never fail to understand the value and worth of these few trinkets, Northman," Breandan stated with a hint of admiration in his voice. Eric acknowledged the statement with a neutral nod.

"May I ask, however," the fairy continued, "whether these artifacts and fineries were obtained through the exploitation of humans?"

Internally, Eric was stunned by this question. A decade before, Eric might have gloated about the fact that he obtained the maps when he and several vampire acquaintances raided an Italian merchant ship in the 1300s. It had been a time when vampires were feared and vigorously hunted. Feeding had been so difficult that vampire lore recorded the period as a time of widespread famine for European vampires. In these modern times, however, that behavior would be regarded as barbaric and monstrous. Whether or not the fairy would see it that way, he could not be sure. Most fairies were monstrous by human standards, but certainly not by vampire standards. "I believe you already know the answer to that particular question, Breandan," was all he said.

Breandan tipped his head. "You are correct," his voice was now soft, lacking the matter-of-fact quality it had taken during his narration. "I merely ask out of curiosity. You see, I have my doubts about the current vampire-human relations. Vampires are man's natural predators. Everything vampires have obtained for survival has been at a cost to humans, has it not?" Breandan's tone was innocent and curious, but Eric suspected some darker purpose; only, he could not see it, and this was frustrating.

"That is an interesting perspective, Breandan, but I am unable to see what relevance it holds to our present conversation." Eric fought to keep the edge out of his otherwise neutral voice. He was determined to keep things light, neutral, and most important of all, blank.

"Why, it is extremely relevant . . . well, relevant in so far as it has some bearing on the outcome of The Great Cleansing," he replied with slightly raised eyebrows and upward inflection. "That is, it is relevant if you _believe_ a prophecy is true."

"And do you believe this absurd prophecy is true?" Eric asked. He was still determined to know why human-vampire relations was relevant, but that question could afford to wait. He felt Breandan's answer to the prophecy question might reveal his role in this intrigue.

"Do I believe the prophecy itself is true?" Breandan asked with some surprise. "Ah, well, I suppose I see where you are going with this." He said this sentence aloud, but as if he were speaking to himself and not to the room of vampires who could undoubtedly hear him. "In answer to your question, _no_, I do _not_ believe the prophecy, at the time it was given, was true. I do not believe anyone has the power to predict the future." He paused for dramatic effect and raised his copper-tinted brown eyebrows. "The better question might be, do I believe in self-fulfilling prophecies?"

"You would not be here if you did not believe _that_," Eric said in reply to this statement. "Am I wrong?"

"Of course not," Breandan said. "Too many of our kind put faith in this woman's words, and the foundation for this battle was laid a long time ago. The part about the part-human, part-fae with special abilities . . . well, there have been many before Sookie. She is not the first to be thought the harbinger of death and peace for our kind." At this statement, Breandan's face showed some regret, and Eric wondered what knowledge he was keeping from them.

"How many others before Sookie?" Eric asked thoughtfully, wondering whether this information would aid him in his search. "How were they known, and what became of them?"

Breandan sat up straighter in his chair. Pam and Fiona twitched behind Eric, as if waiting for the fairy to take some hostile action. Eric held up a hand in warning. The fairy nodded at him, but then closed his eyes and pinched the skin between his eyes. Eric thought this was a rare and possibly feigned showing of weakness on his part. "This part, Northman, is why I have sought your help." He paused as if searching for the right words. "You see, despite my family and title, I am first and foremost a scholar. My life's purpose has been the acquisition of historical knowledge regarding the secrets and legends of my kind. I have read many fae books, which discuss the hunt for human-born fae with special abilities. Over the years these individuals were captured, tested, and trained in their abilities."

Something about this information sent feelings of raw anticipation and unease coursing through Eric's body. He knew whatever Breandan was going to say was directly relevant to his bonded's fate, and possibly to her present location. If only he would be able to riddle it out. "Continue," he urged, knowing Breandan would understand his request.

"In case you were wondering, which I'm sure you were," Breandan stated somberly, every element of playful lightness and even his earlier stoic matter-of-factness gone from his voice and countenance, "many of these individuals were collected by the heads of the fairy realm. Paranoia ran deep, and each successive generation of rulers felt that human-born fae with abilities were a threat to their realms. Niall was no different." A growing sense of anticipation filled the room, and Eric could feel the silent stirrings of both Pam and Fiona. Even had the vampires been able to breath, they would have held it in. "Though Fintan worked hard to conceal the whereabouts of his kin, he died, and Sookie's frequent use of her ability made her vulnerable. The strength of her powers and her ability to garner devotion from other members of the supernatural community rendered her a great interest to the fae. Many believed that finally they had located the subject of the prophecy."

"And . . . ." Eric pressed.

"And," Breandan continued with a touch of irritation, "I warned her. I let her know that she was in great danger and that she would need to make a choice."

_TBC_ . . . .


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: [EPOV] _Eric's muse apparently had something to say this week. He keeps speaking to me, and really wants me to get out another large part of his story before we revisit Sookie. The muse seems to feel that the story will have greater flow and completeness that way._

_Thank you very, very much to all who still read and comment. I know it is not fun to read a story where there are such long gaps between chapters, so I'm trying to rectify that situation._

_As always, I do not own these characters or this strangely addictive universe . . . they belong to Charlaine Harris, with a few additions from me._

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_Eric tapped his fingers impatiently against the solid wood of his desk. It had been two nights since their sit-down with Breandan, and he had yet to deem any of his plans satisfactory. He was irritable, to be sure, but that was no excuse for his inability to decide. Ideas were swimming in his head, half-formed and undefined like tadpoles with no understanding of the world outside the immediate estuary.

When pressed for further detail, Breandan had claimed there was nothing further of any import to share regarding his interactions with Sookie. Eric had not believed this, of course, and this mistrust was causing a great deal of his irritation. _What difference would it have made if he had explained what he meant by "warning" Sookie and where they had gone the night Sookie's brother had died? What difference? _He had been repeating this question over and over in his head for two days, wondering if these details would explain why Sookie chose to leave, and what would happen if he were to find her.

After another hour or two of contemplation, he had decided. "Pam! Fiona!" He shouted loudly, unsure of where they were in his house. Pam had visited him at dusk, informing him that she and Fiona would be "hunting" that night. All of them were hungry and tired, and none of them had fed in a few days. This was especially hard on Fiona, whose new vampire emotions were difficult to control. Pam had been feeding her True Bloods regularly, but they weren't cutting it. She was cranky, bordering on ornery. He had ordered Pam to do something with her while he concentrated, informing her that he would bond with Fiona the next three nights.

His bellows were met with silence, and he looked at the clock. It was only 11 pm. If they had already left to "hunt," he knew he would not expect to see them before 1 am. He decided to use the time to his advantage and memorialize the sequence of the next few steps in his search. He rationalized it would be easier to mislead Breandan and Bill as to Sookie's true location. His next phase of the search would have to be done carefully and with subtlety. Everyone would be watching his every move, and there were yet a couple of people he needed to see.

The parchment and quill felt pleasant in his hand. He knew it was old-fashioned and probably pretentious, but he could not help it. Vampires so rarely wrote each other notes or written instructions; there was no need due to their ability to absorb and retain information verbally. The soft scratching of the quill was melodic and soothing. Lost in his own thoughts and the hypnotic drafting of instructions . . . of organization . . . he barely looked up when he heard the soft, feminine voices of Fiona and Pam lilting through the hallways.

It was not until he heard their footsteps on the landing outside his office that he finally looked up from his work. "Pam, Fiona, please join me in here."

The two vampires strolled through the heavy wooden doors, casting sidelong glances at each other. Their cheeks were pink and flushed from their recent feed, and their eyes were glowing with mischief. Their levity was infectious, and Eric couldn't help but sit back and smile, breathing in their energy. It was the first lightness he had felt in a long time. He regarded his newest child and looked forward to a more peaceful period when he and Fiona could spend uninterrupted time together, wherein he would impart to her valuable vampire wisdom—whatever that meant.

"Have a seat, little ones," he mocked with a half-smile. Pam shot him a glare, but Fiona chuckled with pleased surprise. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor, Pop," she exclaimed. He flinched. Pam guffawed. _Pop?_ He thought to himself. _That is going to stop_. "Fiona," he said serenely, "I realize you are new at being a vampire and were also possibly taken aback by the reemergence of my previously hidden sense of humor; however, I am no _Pop_ or _Dad_. Is this understood?"

Fiona looked a little nervous, and Pam appeared to be fighting back a smirk. "Sure Eric," she responded without mirth.

"Well, that was fun," he continued. "Now, as the humans say: let's get down to business. The next few weeks, maybe months, are going to be hectic and travel-laden. We must divide and conquer. And, we must do so in a way that distracts the fairy . . . and is believable. I do not trust that fucking fairy, and I do _not _want him anywhere near Sookie. Same goes for Niall; though, I am not yet certain which one is the greater of the two evils."

Pam nodded briskly, but Fiona stared at him quizzically. He could see thoughts forming on the tip of her brain. "Pam, you will lead Bill on a wild goose chase." As Eric explained, he reached across the table and handed Pam the parchment with the instructions he had drafted. It was a detailed list of possible contacts and safe-houses in the Western and Southern states. He had not yet contacted any of the names on the list, but knew them to be fiercely loyal and discreet. They would not betray information to anyone but him, or the client—Sookie, in this case. "We will keep in relatively constant contact. I will keep you apprised of my location and progress. Should I have any breaks, we will decide the best courses of action and misdirection at that time."

"Easy enough," she responded, folding the paper into her back pocket as she rose from her chair. "I will seek out Compton," she said his name with some irritation—she was not a fan, "but I cannot believe I am to spend the next few weeks . . . or months . . . with that vampire."

Eric nodded with a touch of sympathy. "I understand, but you're the best one for the job. Although it does pain me that you will not be there to run Fangtasia. You have far better business sense than Clancy." The two vampires, maker and child, exchanged knowing smiles, and Pam was off to talk to Bill Compton.

Fiona glanced after Pam with an anxious look. She looked as if she wanted to run from the room and was maneuvering as if to do so. "Please, stay," Eric said simply. He had phrased it as a request, but it was actually an order.

"We have some things to discuss, but first I'd like to apologize."

"Apologize?" Fiona asked incredulously. "You don't exactly seem like the apologizing type."

"Well, I'm not, unless an apology is due. Which is rare. So, do not expect it often." Eric paused a moment to decide whether or not it was true that he apologized when apologies were due. He could not think of a time and wondered whether his infrequent apologizing was due to his ability to avoid mistakes . . . or, because he was a stubborn ass. He decided it didn't matter and that an apology was appropriate in this circumstance, so he gave it a try: "I am sorry that you were turned at this time. The uncertainty of the times will delay your development, and this is unfortunate. Please understand that in the long run, everything will be fine."

Fiona sat, waiting for her cue to become an active participant in the conversation. Eric was pleased to see she was learning. "In the meantime, however, I require your assistance finding Sookie Stackhouse." He noted Fiona's uncomfortable expression and sudden intake of breath, "As you probably gathered from our meeting with the fairy Breandan, Sookie may be in grave danger. We need to find her before either Niall or Breandan, and I will need your help in this."

A look of concern spread over her face, "No. . . no! I don't want any part of . . ." she began to protest. "What if she doesn't _want_ to be found?" Eric opened his mouth to respond, but Fiona held up her hand, "No! Hear me! Sarah . . . I mean, Sookie, has been through so much! She deserves to be left alone . . . ."

"I understand," Eric replied. "You must know that she _will_ be found. The only thing we can control is whether she is found by friend or foe. You can help." He stood, picking up a paperweight from his desk and began slowly pacing the room. Fiona's eyes were fixed on him.

"How could I possibly do that?" she asked.

"By telling me everything you possibly can about Sookie and her life in Boston. That sort of information could provide clues about where she is today."

Fiona sat staring at her delicate hands. Eric could sense her confusion and conflict, and he wondered whether he would need to compel her. He was willing to be patient, but he had limits, and he needed to begin his physical search within the next 48 hours. He knew where they were, Breandan and Niall were looking for Sookie. "Fiona, I do not _want_ to pressure you. I would do this without you, but it would take too long."

Finally, a small sigh escaped Fiona's lips. "She is going to kill me," she whispered under her breath.

"No, she will not." Of this Eric was certain. He knew Sookie. He had observed in her that regardless of her personal feelings about actions taken to ensure her safety, she had been willing to forgive and forget if intentions were good. If intentions were bad . . . well, that was another story.

At this, Fiona darted up out of her chair with speed that seemed to surprise her. It surprised Eric, as it was quite fast for such a young vampire, but he quickly recovered and allowed a small chuckle to escape his lips when she put out her hands to steady herself. She began pacing small circles on the opposite side of the large office. She was wringing her hands, and opening and closing her mouth. Eric tapped his index finger on the space between his eyebrows. _Patience, patience, patience, patience, patience, patience, patience, patience_, he chanted in his mind.

"Okay!" she blurted out. "Okay, okay. I think you're right. We need to get to Sarah . . . I mean, Sookie . . . before that freak show back there does."

Eric chuckled, "I think you mean fairy, Fiona."

"No, I mean freak show. He might be a fairy, but there's something really _off_ about him. He gives me the creeps, and whatever he says, I don't trust him. I want to find Sookie before he does, that's for sure." Her voice was calm, resolute. "What do you need to know?"

"Start from the beginning," he encouraged, taking a seat in his overstuffed office armchair. All his intense energy was focused on the new vampire and anticipating what information might come next.

Fiona continued pacing, but turned to face Eric. "Look, I know you only turned me to find Sookie and that you don't really care about me. I also don't know what your relationship was with Sookie . . . but, she trusted you, so please don't break my trust." He nodded. "Okay, well, I met her about a month after she arrived in Boston."

"It was sort of a bad time for me, and I was really withdrawn, so I didn't even bother to notice the quiet, distressed girl sitting next to me in class. Then, one day I got up to go to the ladies' room, and she was there. She was splashing water on her face, talking to herself. She looked pale—nearly gray—and her hands were shaking. I kept asking her if she was alright, but she wouldn't answer."

"I almost left her alone that afternoon, thinking she was crazy or something and that I did not have the time or energy for crazy, but she looked so bad. I just kept staring at her and waiting for an answer. She finally stopped talking and just . . . well, she just dropped to the floor and almost hit her head on the sink going down. I called for 9-1-1 right away and stayed with her throughout the paramedics, the ride to the hospital, and her admission. She had only a driver's license with no emergency contact, so I felt wrong about leaving her. I wanted to make sure she was okay."

"What was wrong with her?" Eric asked, his stomach knotted with anxiety. She had seemed so strong to him the night they had said their good-byes. She had always seemed so strong for a human.

"She had a nervous breakdown or something. . . . The doctors never could find anything really wrong with her and said it was mostly psychological. They also said she was exhausted and dehydrated. So, I asked her where she lived and whether she had anyone I should call. She didn't have anyone and said she was staying at a hotel on campus while looking for housing." Fiona paused and looked at Eric. "She looked so small and fragile in that hospital bed that day. Her hair was thick and lovely and blond, and her skin was tan and healthy again, but her eyes were hollow. She looked . . . well, beaten."

Anger and pain tore through Eric's insides. He cursed himself for having the bond broken. If they had been bonded, he would have known . . . would have felt . . . "For fuck's sake!" he shouted, standing up at lightning speed and barely able to keep himself from pulverizing his credenza to splintered shards of wood. Her pain had been his doing. _But, was there any other way?_ "Please, go on," he said calmly.

Fiona looked frightened and had scurried backward toward the opposite side of the room from Eric. She regarded him carefully as she began speaking again. "She got better, you know. She came to live with me when my other roommate moved in with her boyfriend. Sar—I mean, Sookie—and I spent a lot of time together. I got to know her pretty well, and she gradually seemed to get better. She started receiving good grades in school, worked at the campus library, and drove all the guys insane with her adorable Southern accent. Only, she was so oblivious to them. I'm not sure why, but she never seemed interested in any of them. She also seemed to have a really good sense of which guys were really bad news. She warned me off a few of the losers I brought home. She was a really sweet girl."

Eric was relieved to hear that Sookie had recovered, but was anxious for Fiona to move past the idle female chatter to the heart his query. "We never talked much about our pasts, or our homes. Both of us had our demons and things that we were running from. Our friendship was strong because of that quiet understanding." She paused for a moment. "Come to think about it, it was the least judgmental friendship I've ever had."

"So, you can believe me when I say that I would give anything to help her, and even though you are my _maker_, or whatever that is, I will kill you if you bring her harm." She looked him square in the face.

He nodded. "You could try."

"Well, besides all that, nothing really interesting happened in the first year of our living together. It was halfway through the second year that she met Alex. They had class together, and he'd taken to talking to her every so often. Finally, he got up the nerve to ask her to grab coffee with him. Then he asked to grab lunch after class. He was smart—he started small—but boy did he have it bad for Sa . . . er, Sookie!" Fiona laughed lightly and shook her head. "Sookie had no clue. She never saw him coming. She thought he was just his sweet guy that had the same class, and grabbed coffee with her because it was convenient. When I told her he had it bad, she laughed and told me I was being ridiculous."

Eric listened closely for helpful details, but he could feel the green monster of envy starting to rage inside of him. He was hoping Fiona did not describe this Alex. He could not have borne that, walking around with the image of this other man and _his_ Sookie. "Are details about this Alex somehow relevant?" he asked coolly. Someone like Pam or Sookie would have been able to detect his emotions. Fortunately, Fiona did not know him well enough.

"Well," she said slowly, "it is sort of relevant, I guess. I mean, he's why she left Boston . . . ." Her voice trailed off at this, and she watched him, waiting for a sign that he should continue. "Go on," he said.

"So, like I was saying, she kind of ignored him at first, and he kind of followed her around. Then, a few months later, they went on a date. Sookie never really told me what changed her mind, but the two of them sort of became inseparable. He was always around, or she was always going places with him. It was very sweet. At one point she'd told me they'd even discussed getting married. I could tell Sookie thought this might be the 'happily ever after' I knew she'd been waiting for. She told me she'd had a rough time of it in the _men_ department—but who hasn't these days, right?" As if searching for an ally, she looked right at Eric when she said this, not realizing the nature of his relationship with Sookie. He bristled internally, but merely raised his eyebrows in incredulity.

"Oh yeah," she fumbled, embarrassed, "you wouldn't really know anything about that . . . . So, moving on. Alex proposed. She said yes. He started to save up for a ring. She told him not to worry. Everything was going so well. . . . Then . . . something strange happened. . . . I remember it all like it was yesterday because everything seemed to happen in fast forward that week." Fiona closed her eyes and spoke slowly, as if trying to get the details correct. "We were making dinner one evening, and Sookie got a phone call. At first I thought it was Alex, but don't think it was. She was on the phone for no more than 30 seconds, and she had gone ashen white. I panicked. I tried to figure out what was going on; I tried to cajole, trick, force, do whatever it took to get information out of her."

"I figured whatever happened on that phone was connected to the life she had left behind. Her reaction was so severe." With her heightened vampire emotions, she was feeling the events of that evening, and her fists were involuntarily clenching and unclenching. "I mean, you should have seen her Eric, or _master_, or whatever I'm supposed to call you. She looked like that day in the bathroom but without the mumbling. She was practically hyperventilating. But, she wouldn't tell me a thing. Not a thing!" She sighed in frustration.

"A few days later, they were gone." She finished with sadness. "There was nothing, not a forwarding number or address. Just gone . . . with only a brief note that was a ghost of a whisper of a 'goodbye.'"

"Who do you mean, _they_?" Eric asked, his voice hard. He had an inkling of whom "they" referred to, and he did not like it. Still, he had to know for certain.

"Alex apparently left with her. She never said, not even in the note, and he left no word either, but he never came back. No one ever heard from him again. Our other friends assumed there was some sort of family issue with their marriage or something like that, so they all assumed they'd eloped. Only I suspected it was something more serious than that, but who was I going to tell? Her note told us not to worry, that she was fine, and there was no need to call anyone—including the authorities. It said she would never come back, and it would be better for her if we all just tried to understand that. I recognized her handwriting."

Eric took in all of this information. It was less helpful than he'd hoped it would be. It also raised new concerns. Not the least of which was the fact that an unknown individual's call had set Sookie into running mode again. Did that mean someone had found her? Had someone discovered her secrets and true identity? There were still so many questions. He figured he'd ask Fiona the simple ones: "How did you know her name was Sookie? How did you know how to find me?"

Fiona looked puzzled for a moment, but realized that in her long story, pieces had been omitted. "Oh . . . _oh_. Well, Sookie had a lapse of discretion after that call." An embarrassed and somewhat guilty look crept over her face as she recalled the evening. "That night, after seeing her so upset, I did what any concerned friend would do. . . . I helped her mainline alcohol to drown out the pain and worry."

"Sookie?" Eric asked with genuine disbelief. If Sookie was anything, she was moderate when it came to alcohol. She'd once told him that while she had nothing against people who drank, she'd seen enough stupidity result from alcohol to feel that she need not contribute to it.

"I know, right?" Fiona agreed in amazement. "She _never_ drank! I think that's why she got so drunk. She really didn't have that much, comparatively . . . but after a few shots she was like an entirely different girl. She said some things . . . and, well, you briefly came up when we talked about our pasts. For the first time, she opened up to me about her history, although in a very, very limited way. She told me her name," Fiona held up a finger as if ticking off personal facts Sookie had told her from a list, "she told me she'd gotten involved in some heavy supe politics, and that it had almost cost her life." Fiona dropped her counting fingers, sat down and rubbed her temples. Her dark hair fell in a tangle around her face.

"So, tit-for-tat," she continued. "I told her about my problems back home with my family and the local pack. I told her about the violence that had occurred during the Were revelation and how it had almost cost my life as well. Then I told her that I felt my only way out was to become one of the undead. I figured if I did that, the other Weres would be so repulsed they'd leave me alone."

Fiona shook her head and laughed lightly. "She was so funny when she heard that. After a few minutes of trying to talk me out of it, she said, well, slurred, 'Eric is the best vampire I know. If you want to be a vamp, have him do it. He is completely devious and ruthless and maybe you can't always trust him . . . and don't forget high-handed, but he takes care of his own. T-t-tell him S-s-sookie sent you. . . . Waaait. . . d-d-don tell 'im that. Noone 'posed to know my name." Fiona completed her best impression of Sookie's inebriated declaration.

"Well, that was very interesting, Fiona." Eric rose from his seat. His faith was renewed, and he had a clear plan. "We can resume our search!" He declared aloud, with vigor.

"We can?" Her bright eyes were startled, round emeralds.

"Yes, we most certainly can," he continued. "What was the last name of this _Alex_," he asked, but not without a touch of disdain.

"Oh, it was something unusual, very foreign. . . . Fiala, I believe."

"And Sookie's full name?" he asked.

"Sarah Jones," she replied. "God, I should have realized that was a fake name!" Fiona cried, shaking her head. "It's so obvious now that I have the context!"

"Good," he said. "You will search for Sookie through her last known name. When you come up with nothing through her last known name, try something else common. Try the top 100 common surnames in the United States. Keep the name Sarah. She will not discard that because it's common and will be less suspicious, and easier to justify for new paperwork. Here are the names of three crooked assholes who may be able to help you with this . . . for a price. You have my card and access to my dayman, Bobby Burham."

When he finished talking, he noticed Fiona was still sitting there. "Go now!" he said. "You understand there is no time to lose. Call my cell phone when you have results."

"What should I tell the, er, crooked assholes?" she asked.

"Do you even need to ask?" He was slightly disappointed. But then, he was used to working with Pam who was just preternaturally efficient at these sorts of tasks. At this, Fiona ran with vampire speed through the door. He sensed she would look for Pam, but he would check on her in a few minutes just to make sure she would not kill anyone or disclose information to anyone outside of the individuals he'd named.

It was a lot of responsibility to entrust in a new vampire, but he did not care. His role in the search had finally crystallized in his own mind. He would leave the dead ends to his minions. They could consistently relay the "bad news" to Breandan. In the meantime, he would seek out the oldest and wisest vampire he knew, who also happened to possess unvampire-like magic. With this vampire's assistance, Eric would restore the bond and use it to track Sookie in stealth.

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N: Okay, so I'm sorry the last few chapters have been so "talky-talky." The rest of the chapters should be a better balance of action/talking, and without the long dialogue sequences. I may be wrong, but I thought Fiona's explanation was necessary for Eric to formulate his search. I could not think of a better way to recap it, so I hope it wasn't too boring!_

_If you hang with me, you should be hearing from our favorite buxom heroine about her adventures in the next few chapters._


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: _Sookie POV (Tracks the first year or so of Sookie's time in Boston, after leaving Bon Temps): _

_Sorry for the long break. I was on such a roll too! Grrrr . . . . Anyhow, RL reared its ugly, disruptive head and I haven't had the time or energy to write of late. Hopefully I'll have the next two chapters posted sometime in the next two weeks. That's my goal._

_Anyhow, thank you, thank you, thank you to all those who review. I wish I could respond to all, but I barely even respond to my RL email, so just know that I really appreciate them and your comments inspire and motivate me. _

_As always, all rights belong to Charlaine Harris._

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It was so very cold here. In fact, until relocating to Boston after abandoning Bon Temps, Sookie had never been anywhere this cold. Even when she'd dreamt of the cold . . . well, it never felt _this_ cold. She was thoroughly shocked that this previously unknown world survived, and even thrived, in such brutally cold conditions. It was a wonder to her that she'd lived so long without ever experiencing such an extreme and pervasive type of temperature.

The bitter Boston wind ate through the fabric of her coat, biting at her sensitive skin. Sookie swore she could feel the snow's cold dampness soaking through the thick rubber and faux fur of her snow boots—the first pair she had ever owned. Her teeth chattered, and her eyes teared up.

She wanted nothing more than to burst forth into a run. Her temporary apartment, which was actually a crummy hotel efficiency, was less than two blocks away, and the blocks were fairly short, but the ever-growing heaps of snow were slick and made even walking difficult. This was especially true for the little Louisiana barmaid who'd never seen more than a light dusting. If she thought there was any chance she could run home without falling over, she would have taken it. As it was, her backpack, filled with textbooks, had her off-balance, and it wasn't worth the risk.

With hands that were nearly numb, Sookie fumbled around in her purse, retrieving her keys. She was nearly giddy at the idea of the warm apartment. When she finally gained faculty over her frozen fingers, she shoved the key into the lock with such enthusiasm she hoped it would not permanently damage the key. When she heard the latch give, she flung the heavy wooden door open and stepped onto the "Welcome" mat in the entryway.

The one room efficiency, with a small half-kitchen and tiny bathroom, was deadly silent. Sookie sighed and laid her backpack down in the hall closet. She looked around the room at the brightly patterned hotel furniture, eggshell walls, and typically patterned hotel carpet. _Ick_, she thought to herself. "I really, really need to find someplace else. I can't do this." She sighed and grabbed a skillet from her cupboard and a package of chicken breasts from her refrigerator.

Lost in thought, Sookie barely noticed the popping sound of oil in the skillet. Like most days, she walked through it, going through the motions in a fugue state. The only time she felt connected to the world around her was when she was outside and could feel the blistering cold piercing her inside and out. The rest of the time . . . she was just there.

_Sookie, you have a choice. Look around you . . . . If you stay, you see what will happen. Sookie, you must choose. Look around you . . . . Look around you . . . ._ _Look around you . . . . Look around you . . . . _The voice kept repeating itself. She just wanted it to stop! "Stop!" she shouted. "I'm looking. I see . . . how could I not see!" she cried. She was rubbing at her eyes, sweating, and her insides were in knots. Why did it always have to be her? Why did everything always have to be so hard? "I'm looking, Breandan, I'm looking." She could see all of the bodies. She could see the tubes and wires. She knew what was happening. She knew what he wanted from her. "I see! I see! Make it stop!" The voices of thousands of part-human part-fae minds inundated her from the incubators.

_Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo! _A rooster suddenly appeared at her feet and confusion set in. She looked up into Breandan's strange eyes questioningly. _It is time for you to go, Sookie. It is time for you to live. You must live. Wake up, Sookie. Wake up, Sookie, _the voice continued.

"Oh my gosh!" Sookie's eyes flew open when her subconscious finally understood that she it had been submerged in the depths of a nightmare, and the tinny crowing was not a true rooster, but rather a recording of a rooster blaring from her bedside alarm clock. She breathed deeply and wiped the sweat from her brow. "Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream," she repeated to herself softly under her breath. She lay still for another few seconds, trying to get her bearings. She could tell herself it was just a really lifelike dream, but she knew better. It had been a dreamlike version of a memory.

Groaning, she pushed back the damp sheets and crawled out of bed. "Time to face another day." She pulled off the sheets to throw in the wash and began her daily routine of sleepwalking through her life: class, class, work, class, and then home again to study. Every day consisted of the same routine of trying not to think about the past, of trying to move forward. It was all so exhausting.

"Can anyone describe the _correct_ tenets of the Keynesian theory of economics?"

Sookie could hear her professor talking and asking questions, and either enthusiastic or anxious voices answer him, but she wasn't really listening. She was more concerned with the fact that she just didn't feel . . . _right_. She hadn't been able to stop the quiet tremors or the shooting pains in her left shoulder and arm that had developed overnight and intensified in the morning. She hadn't been able to keep the images and voices of her dream from visiting her during her waking hours. _Get it together Stackhouse_, she would tell herself, but it was no good.

About halfway through class she felt the dizziness set in. She'd experienced dizziness and pains before, but this was something altogether different. When she was young, her Gran enjoyed watching several of the Alfred Hitchcock movies, _Vertigo_ in particular. At this moment, she knew exactly how Scottie felt when he tried to climb that damn bell tower. Everything was moving in an unnatural way. Her stomach started to churn.

She jumped up, steadying herself on the back of her chair before quietly slipping out of the lecture through the door at the back of the classroom. She hurriedly made her way to the closest women's restroom. "Oh my, make it stop, please make it stop. Get this stuff out of my head. I can_not_ do this anymore. Please make it stop. Please make it stop."

"Are you okay?" A soft voice floated through the air in Sookie's general direction. She was too lost in thought to really hear it. She hadn't even noticed the loud, creaky, old door swing open. She had some vague sense that there was another presence in the bathroom with her, but it was too much just to concentrate on staving off the nausea and dizziness. That other person would just have to wait. _They will just have to wait, I'm busy. I need to get this under control . . . . _"Under control," she whispered. "Under control. I need to . . . ." And with that, her whole world went black.

"Oh my . . . .!" The girl's exclamations receded to the back of her consciousness, and finally things were silent and unmoving. Finally, peace.

* * *

"Brrrr!" Sookie semi-squealed to her werewolf roommate, Fiona. "How do people do it?" She asked through chattering teeth. If only she didn't object to fur, she would certainly have bought that warm fur-lined suede coat Fiona made her try on at Barneys. Not that she would have purchased it even if she had no objections. She had nearly fainted when she looked at the price tag. Fiona had barely blinked, but then Fiona had dragged her into Barneys in the first place.

"Sarah, you've lived here for nearly a year now! When are you going to stop complaining about the cold?" Fiona asked, half-serious, half-playful.

"Sheesh, sorry, not everyone is an Eskimo. Besides, it _never_ gets this cold where I'm from!" And she meant it. The weather had forecasted highs in the low-20s. The weather was trying hard to prove the forecast wrong by lingering down around the morning low of 10 degrees.

"Yeah, yeah," she quipped in her mildly Bostonian accent, rolling her eyes. "We all know you're Miss Southern Belle. Couldn't forget it if I tried!" She flashed Sookie a shit-eating grin. Fiona was constantly teasing her about her accent, colloquialisms and habits. At first her roommate's sarcasm and quirky sense of humor had caught Sookie off-guard, but they had grown on her. Now that sense of humor was one of the things Sookie depended on to get her through the harder days. She owed Fiona a lot. An awful lot.

Fiona had literally saved her life. She had walked into the ladies restroom behind Sookie, right as Sookie's emotional breakdown reached its climax. Sookie found out later that Fiona had walked into the women's bathroom, and caught Sookie just before her head was about to hit the sink. Pretty much everything from that day was known to Sookie only by secondhand stories told to her by Fiona and the helpful hospital staff. The doctor said there was nothing physically wrong with her, but had asked her if she had endured any extremely traumatic events or changes. "To say the least," had been her only response.

But, Fiona had saved her life in more ways than that. Though she had barely known Sookie, the pretty and frank werewolf had stayed fairly close by throughout Sookie's hospital stay, helping to keep Sookie calm and comfortable. "Why are you doing this?" Sookie had asked. "You don't even know me." Fiona had simply shrugged and said, "You don't seem to have anyone else. I can't imagine what I would feel like in your shoes." A month later, Fiona's roommate had moved out, and Sookie had moved in. A year after Sookie's emotional breakdown, the two of them had become good friends. Sookie thought it was nice to feel slightly less alone.

"Besides, we're almost there," Fiona finished.

"I know," Sookie grunted through the tartan-patterned wool muffler she had triple wrapped around her neck and face. She looked hopefully at the looming brick building ahead of her. It was so close, _yet so far away_, she kept her complaint to herself.

"Wow," Fiona said suddenly and lightly under her breath. "There's that hottie Alex, and he's staring at you . . . again."

"He is not!" Sookie objected, embarrassed. It had been a long time since she'd thought about a man in any significant way. But, she was still curvy and blond, and she received her fair share of libidinous glances from the opposite sex. This guy, though, was a little different. She had objected to Fiona's declaration, but Sookie could feel his eyes on her when she looked away. When she looked back at him, he was engrossed in conversation with his friends, talking to them and making eye contact as if he could see only them.

That was the first time she thought there might be something different about "that hottie Alex." When she reached out with her mind to see if she could read his, she came up blank. His mind was not like a vampire where there was a "blank" space where a mind would be. Nor was it the rolling, roiling waves of a shifter. It was something else entirely. She couldn't explain it, even to herself. When she reached out to touch his mind, she felt it, but she could only feel a slight hum or vibration; it was the sound of a mind hard at work, completely closed to her.

Shortly after her mind first made contact with his, she saw him look up, disturbed. He glanced around, left and right, shaking his head. His friends kept asking him, "You alright man? You good?" Alex just nodded, and wiped the confused expression off his face as if nothing had ever happened. It was the strangest thing Sookie had encountered since she'd understood the nature of her gift.

* * *

The campus commons was bustling, and the vaguely burnt smell of coffee was pervasive. Sookie breathed it in and allowed herself to enjoy being caught up in the energy of the student crowds. Groaning, she pulled two of her heavy textbooks from her messenger-styled bag. She had a ton of work to do and not a lot of time in which to do it. Going back to school had been both easier and harder than she had expected.

She was steadily improving her ability to block out the myriad voices nipping at her subconscious during had always been the most difficult aspect of school had suddenly become the easiest. To her surprise, her classes were tough! Sookie realized that being out of school for so many years had made her rusty at crucial academic skills like writing and test taking.

On top of her schoolwork, Sookie was learning to balance living in an entirely new, and telepathically louder, city. She was also working an almost-full time job at the library. The work was easier—certainly less exciting—but the hours were less flexible. On the other hand, she had a lot of time to study and work on papers. It seemed to her that very few people used libraries for anything other than studying. Rarely did anyone need her research assistance. The only time she saw a perceptible increase in "business" was during finals and dissertation periods.

Ironically, it was during these periods when she was least excited about helping with research as she was extremely tired and stressed because of her own exams and papers. Her telepathic defenses weakened during these times, and the rapid, stressed mental voices of other students' layered upon her own stressed internal voice. Sookie found migraines a distinct possibility during these times of escalated stress.

About fifteen minutes before her set departure time, Sookie began to feel the onset of a migraine. Of course, at that very moment, a girl with a very loud mental voice approached, battering Sookie's brain with her high-pitched and anxious internal voice. "Oh my gosh! I really need your help! I'm researching . . . ." Sookie strained to block out the voice and plastered a forced smile on her face. Luckily, the request was straightforward. The girl was writing a paper comparing and contrasting the Marxism-Leninism-Stalinism of the communist USSR with China's modern application of political communism and market extremism. Sookie knew nothing about any of this, of course, but directing the girl to the necessary sections of the library was easy. _Thank goodness_, she thought to herself as she packed her own books into her messenger bag and headed out into the crowded commons.

As she breathed the air deeply and watched the commons, bustling with students and life, she couldn't help but wonder how her life would have been different had she done the "college thing" when most people do. Would she have met Bill? Would her life still have become inextricably tangled in the messy world of supernatural politics? Would her brother still be alive? She gladly immersed herself in her International Development textbook, stifling the "what-if" voices that were raging inside her head.

After thirty minutes Sookie became so immersed in her task of highlighting important paragraphs and sentences in the chapter she was studying that she did not even notice that someone had taken the chair across from her at her table. "Eh hem," a male voice cleared its throat.

Sookie barely glanced up from her book when she asked, "Can I help you?" She didn't mean to be rude, but she was busy and surely this person could see that. Not a moment sooner than the words had left her lips did she start with a realization. She could not sense this person's brain. She looked up so quickly she felt her brain rattle, and startled the man sitting across from her. Of course, it was Alex. His eyes were wide with surprise, but the corners of his mouth were curved into an amused smile.

"Perhaps you can help me," he replied while holding up his hand. Clasped in his fingers was a small text book that looked extremely familiar. "Would you be able to tell me if this is yours?" He held the book with the spine in her direction. It was definitely hers. How had it come to be in his possession?

"It is mine, thank you." She held out her hand and tried to seem grateful. She wasn't sure why, but it was hard. Something about his friendly, if a bit flirty, expression made her apprehensive. He was too handsome. Apparently, he was also nice. In Sookie's mind, this was a potential problem in the making.

He retracted the book ever so slightly. "Good. Now that I know you are the proper owner, I can relax. May I look at it?" he asked.

Sookie sighed. "Sure, but it's not that interesting."

"Am I disturbing you?" he asked innocently but playfully.

"Actually, yes. I'm studying. I have three exams next week, and I have to work. So, if you don't mind I need to get back to it." She tried to be courteous, thinking of her Gran and the importance of manners, and keep the irritation out of her voice, but it was hard. This man was far too handsome and far too interested in her. She just wasn't ready for this kind of attention.

"Well, I apologize. I had no intention of single-handedly dismantling your entire exam season. I've just seen you around campus, have always wanted to talk to you, and well, you dropped this, so this was my chance." He placed the book down on the table between them. "How is this for a suggestion: I will sit in this chair, but be completely silent as I work on my dissertation." He began unzipping the top of his own messenger bag. "How does that sound?"

Sookie blinked. She honestly had no clue what to say. She thought she should say no, that she should turn him away and get back to her uncomplicated but busy life. Still, there was something about this man that made her want to say, "Yes." He was certainly handsome, with short, medium brown hair, light hazel eyes, chiseled cheeks and jaw line, and a very masculine brow-line. He was not necessarily her "type," as he had a very foreign look about him, but he was undeniably handsome. He also seemed polite. She hated being rude, especially to someone with manners.

Sookie's mind vacillated a few seconds more before, and against the will of her conscious mind, her mouth opened and uttered, "Okay."

Alex's face broke into a broad grin. "Excellent," he said. "Since we will be sitting together, I think we should introduce ourselves. My name is Alex Fiala." He held out his hand to her across the table.

Sookie took it, and shook. "Nice to meet you, Alex. My name is Sarah Jones."

_TBC . . ._


End file.
